


The Red Wolf

by Wardown



Series: The Wolf Queen [7]
Category: The Death of Stalin (2017), game of thrones
Genre: But willingly serves a totalitarian regime, F/M, Morally grey Sansa, Murder, Prison camps, Reincarnation, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, She's a war heroine, Stalin's Russia, Time Travel, Torture, anti-Semitism, bamf Sansa, flaying, implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wardown/pseuds/Wardown
Summary: An alternative ending to A Dish Best Served Cold, which leads to the start of a new story.A Dish Best Served Cold portrayed Sansa as a villain, albeit with some good qualities.  Here, she is more morally ambiguous.  She had an outstanding record in The Great Patrotic War, beginning at Stalingrad.  But, she is in service to evil men, has worked to snuff out freedom in parts of Eastern Europe, is a torturer, and commanded a prison camp (unwillingly).One should be careful about judging the moral compromises made by people who live under dictatorships.  Most of us would do the same.This is tagged "BAMF Sansa" among other things.  That does not imply that Sansa is a saint.  But, anyone who fought with distinction at Stalingrad and during Operation Bagration, and was awarded the Order of the Red Banner by Zhukov is unquestionably, a BAMF.Many thanks to Sploot for the original idea, and Turandokht for her input on Russian society and life.
Series: The Wolf Queen [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548103
Comments: 178
Kudos: 14





	1. Power Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sploot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sploot/gifts), [Turandokht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turandokht/gifts), [chss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chss/gifts), [Sonata92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonata92/gifts).



"I'm so sorry, my lady, so sorry." Maege Mormont was almost in tears. "I thought my mother would reprieve you. Your sister begged for your life, too." She hugged the former Queen in the North, condemned to death for murder and enslavement. The sentence had been confirmed by Lady Alysanne Mormont, Regent for the child King, Roderick Greyjoy.

"Don't be sorry. I've enjoyed myself in court, making a fool of Beric Dustin. I appreciate that your mother did give me a trial, and acquitted me of some of the charges. But, this was only going to end one way." Sansa gave a brief laugh, before commenting "Besides, I'd far rather end it now, than live on in shame and captivity. Your mother won't burn me at least. I know that's what the Ironborn want. And, I'm sure my dear cousin, Lord Commander Snow, was not among those begging for my life."

"Actually, he did. He said you should be sent as a servant to Castle Black. But, my mother was adamant. And, she has instructed him to carry out out the sentence." 

Sansa gave another hollow laugh. "Well, he's the best swordsman in the North, and Longclaw is razor-sharp. I doubt if I'll suffer unduly at his hands. He's waited fifteen years for this. I pushed him into killing his aunt, and now he'll kill me, his cousin. There's a certain poetic justice in that, wouldn't you say?"

"You don't merit this. At heart, you're decent. " Sansa snorted derisively.

"Maege, you've been a good friend to me, these past weeks. A much better friend than I ever deserved. But, let's be honest, at least with each other. I'm not a good person. I have committed terrible deeds. Yes, there were reasons, or so I told myself at the time. But, I know three parts of the North's inhabitants will rejoice when they hear of my death. Or else they'll complain that the manner of it was too lenient. And, who would blame them? I played the game, and I lost. That's all there is to it. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. That's what Queen Cersei told my father all those years ago. She lost. Father lost. Margaery Tyrell lost. Daenerys Targaryen lost. Now, I've lost. Perhaps every player loses in the end. Don't pity me. You have your whole life ahead of you. Enjoy it." She sighed. "So, when will I be executed?" 

"A week hence." 

"In front of a crowd?" 

"Only my mother, and the lords who were present at the trial." 

"That's decent of her." Sansa spent her last days, closeted with Arya and Maege. She wrote out her will, although her demesne lands had been confiscated, and her personal possessions were little enough. What she had, she divided between her daughter Catelyn, now a ward of Braavos, and Arya. She had requested that she die at Sunset, facing the sea. Lady Alysanne had granted the request. On the evening of her execution, she downed a final glass of wine in her chambers, and Arya fastened her hair under a mob cap. She then joined the waiting guards, and followed them out of the tower where she had been held prisoner, on to the battlements which faced the harbour. The sky and sea were red gold, as the Sun set, a scene of beauty. Lady Alysanne and a score or lords awaited her. Also present was Jon Snow, holding Longclaw in both hands. She had prepared some choice last words for her cousin, condemning him as a traitor to the North, who had fallen for the wiles of a courtesan and surrendered his crown, but she thought better of it in the end. What was the point after all? 

"Lady Sansa Stark" began the Regent "You have been sentenced to death, after having been found guilty of murder and enslavement. If you have any last words, now is the time." She saw the block that had been set down for her to kneel at. 

"If it pleases your Ladyship, I should prefer to die standing, on my own two feet." 

"Agreed." 

"My lady, do I have your word that no harm will befall my daughter, Lady Catelyn." 

"You have my word." 

"Then I wish you long life and prosperity. I hope you enjoy greater success than I ever had, ruling the North. Maege, Arya, thank you for all that you have done for me. I have never deserved your kindness. Jon..." she turned to face her executioner. "I'm afraid that you and I must part as enemies. Do your duty. Avenge the woman that you loved. I betrayed her. I make no apologies for it, but I realise I must pay the price." As always, he looked miserable. "Can't he even get some satisfaction from killing me?" she wondered. "He must have dreamed of it, for years." She looked out across the harbour. How had it ever come to this? The Queen who lost the North. Her family was cursed, she knew. Her grandfather, uncle, father, her mother, two brothers, all murdered. Fate was inexorable; everything you did to fight it just brought it closer. She stared into the golden haze, trying to remember the times when the world had been a place of hope and joy and happiness. A time when her world had been one of lemon cakes, embroidery, singing, and Arya putting goat shit in her bed. She smiled at these memories. 

She scarcely felt the blow that took her head from her shoulders.

Senior Lieutenant Sansa Silnova, holder of the Order of The Red Banner, woke with a start, bathed in sweat. The same dream, over again, recurring every two to three months. She reached for the pack of Belomorkanals on her bedside table. She lit one, and inhaled deeply, calming her nerves. She'd first dreamed this, fifteen years ago, before the War. She'd discussed it at the time, with her father, Edvard, a descendant of a Scottish aristocratic family, the Starks, who had settled in Russia under Catherine II. He suggested it might somehow have been inherited, a memory of the Middle Ages. It was the first and only time he had discussed his family. A wealthy St. Petersburg bourgeois, he had lost everything at the Revolution, and the family was reduced to poverty. But, the Soviet government had faced immense economic problems, caused by a shortage of technical experts. Quite suddenly, her father had been deemed a "specialist", and made the manager of an armaments factory. They had survived the purges of the Thirties, and were privileged, his party membership guaranteeing she had a somewhat comfortable childhood 

She rose and made her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a shot of vodka, sliced bread and doctor’s sausage, and started brewing tea on the stove. She checked the clock; 5 a.m. Almost time to rise for work. She downed the shot, feeling better for it. She never drank in the mornings. Only when she had that dream. What did it mean? During her time in China, she'd met people who believed in reincarnation. Had she really been that woman? Sansa Stark, the Queen who had lost the North and been executed for it? 

"Morning, sis", Arya muttered. She was bleary-eyed, emerging from her room. Currently studying chemistry at the University of Moscow. And wasn't it strange that she always appeared in the dream? Worse, when she shared it. "I know what you dreamed. I dreamed it." Sansa walked over to hug her close. 

"It never ends. I'm a devil. I always will be." Arya stared at her sadly. That was comment enough. She rarely remarked on the nature of Sansa's work, but she guessed what her sister thought about it. But this time Arya did speak, surprising her. 

"You're no devil. You're a national heroine."

"Fighting the fascist snakes, yes, that was heroic. The rest, not so much. " There was nothing heroic about the torture and execution of Ukrainian partisans. And as for commanding a womens' prison camp in Kolyma, well, that was another matter altogether. Presiding over half-starved, frozen spectres, in sub-zero temperatures. Were she religious, she would have thought she was in hell itself. "But you weren't in hell." the Curator had reminded her. "Hell is on the other side of the wire." He had smiled, a smile which never reached his eyes, the eyes of a rapist behind the pince-nez.

Arya returned to bed, as Sansa finished her breakfast, adding a pat of butter to the bread before eating the sandwiches, open-faced. She went to the bathroom, where she ran a bath for herself, luxuriating in the warm water for half an hour. As she sat in the bath, she continued with a funny novel called The Code of the Woosters, which she had started the previous day. Her eighteen months in Siberia had given her plenty of time to resume the education that been interrupted by the War, and she had worked her way through the classics of Russian and English literature. It was nice to take a break with some light reading, and Wodehouse always made her laugh. She got up, dried herself off, and then put on her uniform. She certainly wasn't looking forward to what the day held in store for her, but this was the work she had chosen. It gave her a fine two-bedroom apartment in the best district of Reutov, and her sister the chance to qualify as a chemist. Life could be much worse, she knew. She could easily have ended up on the other side of the wire, after the scandal.

She left her sister, asleep, and walked for the Metro. Students weren't required to be early risers. It was a fine late August morning, a day she could really have enjoyed in other circumstances. She entered the station, showed her pass to the attendant, and resumed reading, once her train arrived. After forty five minutes, she reached her destination, Lubyanka. She left the station, noting as ever, the glowering statue of Felix Dzherzinksy, and walked to the Ministry of State Security. The guards saluted her respectfully, as she entered, and made for the main staircase. Her business, this morning, was in the basement. "Another kind of hell" she thought, as she descended the stairs. She walked down a corridor, past several locked doorways. She could hear sounds behind them, some of them unpleasant. She heard voices too. Low and insistent, on the part of the questioners. High-pitched, and desperate, on the part of those being questioned. She reached the end of the corridor, the atmosphere damp and oppressive, knocking three times. Sergeant Dubretskoi opened the door and saluted her. "Good morning Ma'am" he remarked. The man was built like a bear, with a mouthful of gold teeth. She saw the prisoner, tied naked to a chair, in the centre of the room. He was heavily overweight. A single light bulb produced a limited amount of light. Even so, she could she could see the bruises left on his torso. He was bleeding too. She looked at the third man in the room, Corporal Yezhov, tall and slim, looking bored as ever. The two men had spent the night working their prisoner over with lengths of rubber hosepipe.

The prisoner looked up at her slowly, staring out of bloodshot eyes. "You" he said simply. 

"Me. You want a cigarette?" He nodded. She drew out her pack, and lit one for him, placing it in his mouth. She lit another for herself. 

"You know what they're like. How can you work for them?" 

"You're asking the wrong question, Stepan. Knowing what they're like, how can I not work for them? You're either giving the beating, or taking it. I know which I prefer. These two have been quite gentle with you so far. You should have seen the hammering that Dubretskoi gave to Paul. He was shitting blood, in his last miserable hours." Stepan winced at this. 

"You betrayed us all." 

"I did my job. Now then, you can end all this unpleasantness right away, by telling us what we need to know. You're in contact with other leaders of the UPA. I want names, addresses, identities. Give them to me, and this story might just have a happy ending for you and your family." She saw the man wavering. She brushed his hair gently, before saying "Come on, you can tell mama, and it will all be over." The man began to weep. There was a knock on the door. A man entered "Ma'am, you have your appointment with the Curator. There is a car waiting." 

"Very well. Dubretskoi. Clean up our friend here, and get him some clothes. I have a feeling that sharp questioning will not be necessary." She left with the newcomer. "Sergeant Shuvalov, Ma'am" he introduced himself. "It's an honour to meet a legend", he continued. "Thank you, Sergeant", she replied. The car was parked outside, a black ZIS 110. Shuvalov opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed in. It was no more than a few hundred yards to the Kremlin, where she would be meeting the Curator, in his office. She knew the man's reputation. Only that she was hardened in combat kept him from forcing himself on her, she was sure—and only because it made her uninteresting. He liked them innocent. The odd thing was, she had known the man, the first time they met. She had met him in her dreams, frequently, before that. The President of her own Inquisiton. Had he been reborn too, she wondered? They reached the Kremlin, and got out of the car. Shuvalov led her to the Curator's office. He knocked and they entered the presence of the most dangerous man in the Soviet Union, Lavrenti Beria. "Our Himmler", General Secretary Stalin had once called him. That had been no joke. At least, not to anyone other than Stalin. 

"Thank you Shuvalov, you may leave us. Be seated, Lieutenant." He gestured to a chair, on the other side of his desk. She looked at him square. "A killer with the manners of a rabbit" she thought. "Tea?" he offered. "With pleasure, Excellency." He poured for them both, and she added milk. 

"Well, it seems you have returned from Lvov, with fresh laurels. You have destroyed a cell of the counter-revolutionaries , and brought back their leaders for interrogation. Congratulations are in order." 

"I thank your Excellency. I regret to say, that one of them died under questioning." He frowned, before replying, "Well, these things happen. Did he confess?" 

"He did." 

"No loss then. Yours has been quite a record of achievement. First—you kept those girls together in Stalingrad. Then, just twenty years old, and Comrade Ehrenburg was lauding you to the skies as "The Red Wolf " in Krasnaya Zvezda. " As a junior lieutenant, she had been parachuted in to fight with Belorussian partisans, in the weeks preceding Operation Bagration. She had done very well, and Ehrenburg had ensured she had the status of a celebrity, in the aftermath of victory. Her achievements had won her the Order of the Red Banner, presented by Marshal Zhukov himself. 

" Afterwards, you suppressed counter-revolutionary forces in Krakow with true socialist ruthlessness, before serving with distinction in China and Korea. Then you made a fool of yourself." He looked up at her sharply. She had. She had fallen in love with the son of the Dean of Natural Sciences, at Leningrad University, just before his father was purged, along with most of the city's Party leadership. Worse still, she had sought to intercede on behalf of him and his family. The purge had been orchestrated by the man sitting opposite her. She had been detained for several weeks, before being released and placed in charge of a prison camp. For a gifted intelligence officer, this was a mark of official disapproval. Her promotions, already stalled by her status as a woman after the war, had ceased entirely. 

"I trust you learned your lesson", he continued. "When we last met, I said you were wasted in Siberia, and were needed in the field. I'm pleased to say, you justified my faith in you. I can inform you that I have recommended your promotion to captain." Her heart soared, "I am grateful, Excellency, she commented." It also, of course, meant that she was expected to be entirely Beria’s creature, she would not have been brought back from Kolyma otherwise. 

"There is something you should know. I am speaking to you in the strictest confidence, you understand. " 

"I understand." 

"The Vozhd is ailing. A blazing comet will shortly be extinguished. We lesser men cannot hope to emulate his achievements, but must of necessity, do our best to maintain his legacy. There are those in positions of power who seek only their own preferment. They will have to be eradicated.". It occurred to Sansa that what she was hearing was treason. To speak up was dangerous. She merely nodded, as the Curator continued. "We have ruled not just the Soviet Union, but our allies too, with an iron hand. Of course, this was necessary, but perhaps we have relied too much on the stick, and too little on the carrot. On occasion, there have been excesses. Thanks to the work of operatives such as yourself, our people fear the Party. I do not blame you of course. You have fulfilled your orders with admirable zeal and efficiency. But, it is still a fact. I intend that there should be changes in the future. A greater degree of openness, and reform. It is necessary for us to maintain technical parity with the western powers; our foreign operations, especially the illegals, make this abundantly clear. The current system of repression excessively restrains scientific development. There will be those who oppose such measures. I shall require allies in the struggles to come. Do I make myself clear." 

Oh yes, he'd made himself very clear. He would make his own bid for supreme power. And, he would gather support from whichever quarter he could find it. She realised now why she had been promoted. A war heroine could still be of use to him. And, she could be discarded if necessary. "I do not blame you of course." Bugger that! If she had to be sacrificed to satisfy Poles and Ukrainians, well, she'd be sent before a firing squad, if this man was feeling generous; tortured and hanged if he wasn't. She realised she'd entered a game as deadly as the game of thrones. 

"Admirably, your Excellency. Rest assured, you will have no more staunch a supporter than I."

"Good. I have fresh work for you, in Macao. But first, tell me about Lvov?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. About 800,000 women served in the Red Army during WWII, and thousands subsequently. Most of them served in the nursing corps, but some had combat roles, as snipers, pilots, intelligence officers, or regular soldiers serving with the partisans. Contrary to subsequent myth-making, it was very unusual for women to achieve commissioned officer rank. The highest ranking female officer was Colonel Yevdokia Bershanskaya, regimental commander of the 588th regiment of bomber pilots, the "Night Witches". Senior Lieutenant is roughly equivalent to Captain in the British Army.
> 
> 2\. Order of The Red Banner was the third highest honour in the Soviet Union, one step down from Order of Lenin, and two from Hero of the Soviet Union. In a way, it held greater prestige than the other two, because it was only ever awarded to soldiers who had displayed heroism in combat, whereas the others might also be given to prominent politicians and civilian officials. To achieve the rank of Senior Lieutenant, and to obtain such an honour, Sansa would have had to be pretty special. Sansa began her career as a political officer with the 1077th anti-aircraft regiment, largely comprised of young women, which fought heroically at Stalingrad. As a result, she would have been able to press for the right to join an infiltration unit, a role which would usually go to a man.
> 
> 3\. Kolyma is a harsh region of Eastern Siberia, which is rich in natural resources. Under Stalin, hundreds of thousands of prisoners were deported there, and held in labour camps. The death rate was 27% a year. In her past life, Sansa was no stranger to labour camps.
> 
> 4\. The Soviets had a love-hate relationship with PG Wodehouse. Initially, they enjoyed the way he poked fun at the English upper classes, but eventually, his novels ceased to be published in the Soviet Union in the Thirties due to being "bourgeois". But, many of them were still available in Soviet libraries, and a privileged person like Sansa would be able to get hold of them.
> 
> 5\. Reutov is a suburb of Moscow.
> 
> 6\. At this point, Lavrenti Beria is Deputy Premier, and Curator of the Organs of State Security. Essentially, chief of police and the intelligence services. Beria was a serial rapist. The Ministry of State Security (MGB) is the predecessor to the Committee of State Security (KGB). He made a bid for supreme power after Stalin's death. Despite his cruelty, he intended to liberalise the Soviet State.
> 
> 7\. UPA - Ukrainian nationalist partisans. Lvov is a city in Western Ukraine, also called Lviv, Lwow, and Lemberg.
> 
> 8\. Operation Bagration was the Soviet offensive which liberated Belorussia, in the Summer of 1944, and destroyed the German Army Group Centre.
> 
> 9\. Ilya Ehrenburg was a prominent Soviet author and journalist, who wrote in the Soviet Army newspaper, Krasnaya Zvezda.
> 
> 10\. "The Vozhd". The Boss, Joseph Stalin.
> 
> 11\. The "Leningrad Affair" was a wholesale purge of the Leningrad Party, organised by Beria and Malenkov, in 1948 - 1950. Had Sansa's war record been less distinguished, she would either have been executed, or sent to a labour camp.


	2. The Wages of Treason

"The local police chief was convinced there was a counter-revolutionary cell, operating within The Fighting Armoured Vehicle Plant, as you know. There was widespread sabotage. But, they had caught no one. I joined the workforce. 

"You would surely have stood out among the workforce. You come from a privileged background." 

"I did, but that proved an advantage. I had a good cover story." 

"Tell me." 

My childhood was comfortable. My father was a Party Secretary in the Donbass. But, he fell victim to Yagoda in 1935. We were sent to a collective farm on the Volga, where I was an agricultural labourer. I fought in the 1077th (well, that part was true) but I still had a black mark against me, because of my father. I hated the system. Eventually, I was transferred from Eastern Ukraine to Lvov. " The Curator nodded with approval. "Yes, that makes sense". 

"I spent six months, before anyone approached me. I'd dropped the occasional hint that I hated the party. I was told I was being given the opportunity for revenge. " And hadn't that been strange? She knew the man who had approached her, Stepan Timoshenko, from her dreams; her past life. The last time she met him, she'd laughingly proposed a toast "To the traitors". Grand Maester Tarly had joined in, sheepishly. He'd come to a bad end, eventually, as had she. As they all had done. He had recognised her, too. In fact, she thought her cover had been blown, but instead, it had created a bond between them. She'd taken his cousin, Paul, as a lover, and become a trusted member of the cell. Until the time came to betray them. "I managed to gain their trust. I even took one of them as a lover. He was the one who died under questioning." 

"Does that fact bother you?" remarked the Curator. 

"Not in the least" she replied, hoping it was the right answer. It appeared to satisfy him. But then, he frowned, and said "I trust you aren't carrying the man's child." 

"I took precautions. " Then she continued "I persuaded them to move on from sabotage, to stealing munitions. They organised a raid, in order to capture firearms and grenades, but I had ensured that the police were waiting for them. There are fifteen, now in custody. Three died in the raid. I think Stepan will yield valuable information today." 

"That was smart work. I'll ask your superiors to give me your full report. It should make interesting reading. Now, let me tell you about your next assignment, in Macao. " 

After he had finished, she left the Curator's office, returning to the Ministry. There was no car waiting this time, so she walked the short distance. Back to her prisoner. She had never enjoyed inflicting pain. She knew people who did, in her line of work. In her view, they made bad intelligence operatives. She just had to shut her mind to what she was doing. Or what she got Dubretskoi and Yezhov to do for her. To them, it was simply a day's work. Still, getting that vital clue from a suspect, or turning him into an informer? She had to admit, that gave her a certain thrill. Stepan could be turned, she was sure. She descended the stairs again, returning to the basement cell. The man was now clothed, although still restrained, tied to the chair. 

'Stepan, I hope you've now had the chance to consider how you might redeem yourself. You're a good man. Your family are good people. None of you need to suffer, unduly." 

"You killed Paul," he exclaimed. "He loved you." 

"He did, and he died. Horribly. I wouldn't wish such a death on a dog. Fortunately, I'm giving you a chance to avoid his fate." _God above, this is a low chapter, even for me. From national heroine to torturer of the helpless. Is this what you signed up for, Sansa, when the fascists invaded us? If Arya, Mother and Father could see you right now, what would they think? They'd see you for the piece of shit that you really are. Perhaps they already know that's what you are. Well, Mother at least does know what you are. " _She winced inwardly, remembering the one and only discussion she and her mother had had about her work.__

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"Give me names, Stepan. Just give me names, and this can turn out well, for you, your wife, and your daughters. I know you're a brave man, but think of your children. They don't deserve to suffer. " 

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He broke, spending the next hour or so, confessing his treason, spilling the details of his contacts, where they lived, what they looked like. 

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"Thank you' she replied politely. "I mean it. You've been very helpful. Dubretskoi, give this man a drink?" 

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The sergeant hurried over to a sideboard, took out a bottle of vodka, and poured a tumbler. "Good Stepan, you need a drink, surely." The man nodded. Dubretskoi tipped the glass to the man's mouth, surprisingly gentle. He drank furiously. "On the face of it, you've given us good intelligence. So long as you've told us the truth, I think, you and your family could expect to spend......no more than five years in Kolyma. In one of the better camps." She smiled down, as he looked up in horror. 

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"You promised...." 

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"A happy ending for you and your family. You won't be executed, and you'll probably survive the camps. That's what I call a happy ending." 

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"You lied to me!" 

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She frowned. "I told you no lies, Stepan! Let me make this absolutely plain. You are a traitor, by your own admission. No one forced you to betray your Motherland. You could be condemned to death. Your family could be condemned to very harsh imprisonment. I'm your fairy godmother! " 

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"What fucking difference does it make! We'll all die anyway!"

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"You might. Unless......." she left the unspoken promise, hanging in the air. 

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"Unless what?" 

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"You could make yourself very useful to us. You'll have to serve a prison term, but you won't be brutalised. Then, we'll send you back to Lvov. You'll demonstrate that you've seen the light. A leader of the partisans, who now acknowledges that he was wrong, and sings the praises of his Soviet brothers and sisters, who showed how merciful they really are. We can put you on the city council, perhaps make you Mayor one day. You'll live in your own flat, with your family, and never lack for food. You'll holiday in the Crimea for two weeks a year. How does that sound? I'd take that deal in your shoes. Truly, I would." 

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Well, she'd pitch the deal to her superiors. Sometimes they were subtle. They might agree. Or, they might just shoot him anyway. Either way, she was sure he'd yielded valuable information. 

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"What choice do I have?" 

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"None whatsoever, really. You, me, Dubretskoi and Yezhov, here. None of us have much of a choice. We just have to cope with what fate throws at us." Stepan had no answer to that. 

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"Yezhov here will type up your confession, then you'll sign it. " She got up, and left the room. After taking lunch in the staff canteen, she went to her office, and spent the afternoon typing up her report, working her way through half a pack of cigarettes, in the process. Yezhov brought up the signed confession, which she added to the report. After work, on the train home, she immersed herself again in Wodehouse, which at least took her mind off the day's events. 

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She entered her apartment a short while after Arya had returned from her course, in late afternoon. She busied herself, preparing the evening meal, pea soup, and lamb goulash. Then she served the pair of them. She produced a bottle of red Massandra, and poured two large glasses. Arya seemed surprised. Well, wine was not normally part of the evening meal, but she needed something to steady her nerves, and Arya's, for that matter. She wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject. She fiddled nervously with the wine glass, as she pondered what to say. Arya was astute, and spoke up. 

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"There's something bothering you, Sansa, what is it?"

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"How to put it? There's a chance that things might turn out very badly for me in the coming months. As bad as they could be. If the worst happens, you must not hesitate to denounce me, and mother and father must do so as well. That is, if any announcement is made at all." _Just as likely, they'll report the discovery of a young woman's body in the Canal. Battered to death with a blunt instrument. Body too badly decomposed to be identified. Case closed._

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Arya raised her eyebrows, but did not react otherwise. Well, she had a rough idea what Sansa did for a living. Even the relatively privileged were one misstep away from a bullet through the head, after all.

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_Just as it was for your subjects. Your courtiers lived in fear of you, your lords lived in fear of you, the Smallfolk lived in fear of you, even your Inquisitors lived in fear of you. Each one, scheming desperately to survive your cruelty. They feared you, just as much as they fear the Vozhd. I'll grant, you had a good run. Fifteen years. But, the world cheered when I took your life," _said a voice in her head, remarkably like that of Jon Snow.__

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Mater Bozh'ya, was she going mad? She recovered. "Arya, on no account, attempt to intercede, if I am arrested. Do you promise me that?" Arya looked sad, but nodded. "Good. I'm going abroad for a while". Arya knew better than to ask where. They finished their meal in silence, before Sansa retired to bed. She finished her novel, by the light of her bedside lamp, took another shot of vodka, and drifted off to sleep. Fortunately, she had no dreams. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Genrikh Yagoda, Peoples' Commissar for Internal Security, and Director of the NKVD, from 1934 - 1936 has the distinction of being one of the few Soviet leaders who was even more cruel and depraved than Beria. Collectivisation and the war against the Kulaks inflicted an appalling famine in the Ukraine from 1933-36. Even senior figures in the Ukrainian Communist Party protested, and were purged accordingly.
> 
> Eastern Ukraine was generally more sympathetic to the Soviet Union than Western Ukraine. Many Eastern Ukrainians were therefore transferred West, after the war. 
> 
> 2\. Massandra is a famous Crimean winery.
> 
> 3\. Mater Bozh'ya - Mother of God.
> 
> 4\. Some readers might be surprised by the degree of frankness on the part of both Sansa and Beria in discussing the failings and unsavoury aspects of the Soviet regime. However, good intelligence officers (and the Soviet intelligence services were the best in the world, during the Cold War) need to be able to assess the facts, rationally and objectively. Beria would not have reached the top without possessing considerable intelligence, as well as cunning and ruthlessness. Almost certainly, his desire to liberalise was motivated by fear that the Soviet Union would fall behind the West technologically, without such liberalisation. Likewise, he would not hold it against Sansa that she used the purges carried out by Yagoda as the basis for her cover story.


	3. The Huntsman of Baranavichy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence, and is filled with racial insults.

The victim was tied to a wooden tripod, stripped naked. The Huntsman grinned. It had been a wonderful day's sport. The prisoners had been released into the woods, and then, he and the other officers hunted them with dogs. A group of NCO's had acted as beaters, flushing them out of bushes, and hollows, where they had sought to hide. There were six of them, a Jewish family discovered hiding in an attic in Baranavichy. The local family who had sheltered them had been executed on the spot. But the Jews themselves, they gave good sport. Five of them acquitted themselves very well, providing him and his companions with a real challenge, as they stalked them through the forest. His commander, Oberfuhrer Dirlewanger, had rewarded each of them with a bullet through the head, once they were caught, before the Huntsman took their hides. But this one, the old grandfather, had scarcely made an effort. Well, there were other ways of amusing yourself. He cleaned his knife and walked over to his victim. His commander and the other men were gathered round, grinning expectantly.

He made two long cuts with his knife, vertically, and horizontally, in the man's back. The man screamed hideously. The Huntsman laughed as his victim pissed himself. A sergeant handed him a longer, thinner knife, and he set to work cutting the skin and fat away from the red muscle beneath, leaving the flesh hanging from the man's back in two flaps. Then he went to work on his legs and arms, oblivious to the blood pouring from his victim's body, drenching his own clothing. He found himself growing hard, as he worked. This kind of work always aroused him. He'd need a woman tonight. He noticed that the man had passed out, and ordered one of his men to throw a bucket of water over him, to bring him back awake. His victim screamed briefly, before relapsing again into unconsciousness. He was now working on his victim's stomach and chest, deftly separating skin from muscle. He made a few cuts round the shoulder's and head, and then pulled upwards sharply. He had done it! The skin came off in one piece, with the man's dark hair attached to the top of it. The soldiers gave a roar of applause. "Magnificent work" bellowed Dirlewanger, as he strolled over to the Huntsman, giving him a hearty handshake. He prodded the scarlet body. "You know, I think he might still be alive, just about. Imagine waking up to find you've got no skin!" Both men laughed heartily. "You deserve a bottle of schnapps, come and join me at headquarters, and we'll drink to your success", he said, as he put his arm round his shoulders and walked away with him. 

Life had been good, no question. In two years, he'd gone from being a half-starved prisoner of war, captured when Rostov fell to the Germans, to Obersturmfuhrer in the 36th SS. Dirlewanger had been seeking recruits from among prisoners of war deemed suitable for "Germanisation" so of course, he'd joined up. And, as a captain in the Red Army, he'd been never been given the same opportunities to enjoy his "amusements." His new commander had recognised a kindred spirit, and given him free rein to indulge his passions as they fought the partisans in Belorussia. And they were a growing problem, he thought, as he joined Dirlewanger in his jeep. Despite the most savage reprisals, their activities were on the rise, led by that elusive bitch they were calling the Red Wolf. God, if he caught her, he had some excellent plans in mind. But the situation was becoming grave. No fool, he could see that the tide had turned against his new masters, as the Red Army ground remorselessly Westward. They had finally ended the siege of Leningrad that Spring, and won a major victory in Western Ukraine. The hammer would surely fall on Army Group Centre, before long. He knew he could expect no mercy should he fall into the hands of his old employers. They would see him as the vilest of traitors; if he wasn't executed on the spot, he'd be worked to death in one of the camps. No, he had to make good his escape, if the worst happened. 

The jeep bumped along the dirt road as they drove back to headquarters in the town. "Great work" remarked Dirlewanger. "Where did you learn how to skin game so well?" 

"All my family were hunters. Skinning game is no different to skinning yids. " 

"Skinning yids is so much more fun though" said his commander, grinning. "You know, it would never have occurred to me, till I first saw you do it. Hanging, burning, beating them to death, I've done all that. I've even choked a man on his own shit. But, compared to you, I'm just an amateur".

"You're too kind, sir" he replied. 

"Would you skin the Red Wolf if you caught her?". 

"Eventually. I'd want to make her suffer, for a while, before I gave her that mercy." Dirlewanger roared with laughter. Oh, the Huntsman knew the Red Wolf; the woman who had fed him to his own bitches in a previous life. He'd planned to mate her to his dogs, before the sow escaped. Once she'd borne him a child, he and Miranda would have spent days amusing themselves with her, before he removed her flesh. He felt a sudden stab of fury. He was a killer, not a victim, yet still she and her filthy brother had got the better of him.

They reached headquarters. "Ah, a bottle of schnapps, a fine meal, and then a woman perhaps?" remarked the Oberfuhrer. I think we've both earned it." 

"Sounds good to me sir." Willing or not, and in general, he preferred a struggle, the local women were undeniably attractive. He'd have a wash, and then he'd join his commander. 

The Huntsman of Baranavichy never captured the Red Wolf. But, he would survive the war, and make good his escape. He would prosper for a while, but justice of a sort would catch up with him, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I'd love to say that the Huntsman's activities were poetic licence. Unfortunately, it is well documented that members of the Dirlewanger Regiment acted in similar fashion, burning women and children alive, injecting them with strychnine after raping them, and hunting them with dogs. Oberfuhrer Oscar Dirlewanger was perhaps the most loathsome man in the SS. He was a child molester who was in jail for much of the 1930's. However, he did have a good reputation as a fighter, and was a fanatical Nazi. He was given the opportunity to "redeem" himself, by forming an SS unit made up of fellow criminals. They were joined by Russian and Ukrainian volunteers, all of whom shared a passion for murder, rape, and torture. Tens of thousands of civilians perished at their hands.
> 
> The Bloody Mummers, comprising people like Vargo Hoat, a psychopath, Septon Utt, a child rapist, Urswyck, wife murderer, Shagwell, a psychotic clown, Rorge, a serial rapist, and Biter, a cannibal, are perhaps *less bad* than this outfit, and the Kaminski Brigade, an equally vile bunch.
> 
> I'm pleased to say that when he was captured by the French at the end of the War, they "forgot" to guard him properly, and a group of Polish soldiers beat him to death.
> 
> 2\. Oberfuhrer is a senior colonel, Obersturmfuhrer, a senior lieutenant.
> 
> 3\. Baranavichy is a town in Belorussia, where the regiment murdered 8,000 Jews.


	4. An Evening in Macao

The casino was thronged with every sort and condition of men and women. Wealthy tourists, courtesans, remittance men, degenerate gamblers, all rubbed shoulders together. Many French, she noted, no doubt seeking relief from their own war in the South. Sansa sweated slightly in her green silk evening dress. She had been sipping diluted white wine, and playing blackjack all evening, losing steadily, as one usually did, when playing against the house. Still, her superiors had given her a generous allowance. Travelling on a fake Portugese passport, she had her hair died brown and set in a permanent wave. She wore brown corneal lenses. She'd grown close, in recent days, to her target, the Huntsman of Baranavichy, who sat opposite, enjoying greater success at the card table. Much good it would do him, she hoped. As she intended, he'd approached her in the expectation of seducing her. She'd acted coy, not wanting to arouse his suspicions by seeming too eager. He was sharp, spotting her for a Russian, almost immediately, despite her speaking English. She had her cover story. Her name was Irena Popova. Her family were Whites, who had fled Russia in the Twenties, and settled eventually in Macao. Her father had managed a shipyard, and she'd inherited a modest fortune. He'd revealed little of his own history, save that he was of Russian origin. 

She knew of the man, obviously, from her time in Belorussia, although his evil had been obscured by that of his commander, Dirlewanger. He had enjoyed chasing prisoners with dogs and flaying them, upon capture. Her file showed that during the fighting in Wola, in August 1944, he and his company had massacred the inmates of a childrens' hospital, beating the children to death with rifle butts and bayonetting them, before hanging the medical personnel. Now promoted to Hauptsturmfuhrer, he had been transferred to the Baltic coast, where in January 1945, he had commanded death marches from Stuthoff Concentration Camp, driving hundreds of people into the sea and machine gunning them. The man's career had been one long record of murder, rape, and torture. She had read the file with disgust, made all the sharper by the fact that he had once been an officer in the Red Army. A traitor, on top of everything else. If only she had had him in her sights, in Belorussia. He had fled in the chaos that engulfed the Third Reich at the end, only to re-emerge in Egypt, three years later. Subsequently, he had made his way East, taking service with the Kuomintang, in Formosa. He liked to gamble in Macao. It was all so horribly reminiscent of the Beast of Bolton who inhabited her dreams. The man who had raped and tormented her mercilessly, until the day she fed him to his own hounds. Could he have been reborn? Yet, he looked nothing like the man she had married. He was tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed; it was ironic that so many Soviet inhabitants matched the Nazis' Aryan ideal, a relic of their Viking ancestry, and yet had been deemed sub-human by them. On this occasion, he was the quarry. Her bosses could have asked their Chinese counterparts to liquidate him, but it was important to send a message to traitors; the MGB had a long memory, and would track you down eventually. She'd made two important purchases, this morning. The first was a small fishing boat, the other, a bag of quick drying concrete.

The Huntsman rose from the table. "Time to collect my winnings." 

"Of course, sir," replied the dealer. 

"Madam Popova. Perhaps you would care to join for me for dinner?" 

"It would be my pleasure", she responded. She rose, and they walked towards the entrance. 

Yitzhak Gold stared at the couple through the haze of cigarette smoke, as he nursed his scotch at the bar. He was one of a handful who had survived the massacre of Baranavichy's Jews; out of eight thousand, perhaps a couple of hundred had survived the war. The dead had included his entire extended family. He had made it his life's work to track down those responsible, even after emigrating to Israel, and joining the security forces. His superiors had learned that the Huntsman had surfaced in Egypt, like so many war criminals, and had authorised his assassination, but the man had given them the slip. He had disappeared for a time, but now, he had re-emerged in the Far East. Well, justice may take a long time to catch the fleeing villain, but she tracks him down eventually. He wondered about the brunette. She was undeniably beautiful. It would be a shame if he had to kill her too, but he could leave no witnesses when he killed the monster. It was hard, in any case, to feel sorry for a woman who would love such a man. He paid for his drink, lit a cigarette, and casually walked away, tracking them from a distance. He saw them walking arm in arm, through the dusk, finally entering a fine restaurant, the Lisboa, famed for its roof garden, as much as for its cuisine. After a discreet interval, he entered after them, taking a table of his own. 

The Maitre d' bowed before Sansa and her companion as they entered the restaurant. 

"The roof garden, if you please, assuming that is agreeable to you, my dear". 

"That would be delightful" replied Sansa. She had decided on the method of the man's execution. It did however, require her to take him alive. Regrettably, that might even mean she had to spend the night with him. Her skin crawled at the prospect, but she was adept at masking her emotions. Was this really the man who had been her husband, in another world? She simply couldn't be sure. A waiter led them up the stairs, and ushered them to a table overlooking the bay. The garden was certainly a work of art, all lit in strange colours by the purple sunset, and discreet lamps. There was a lawn, smooth as a billiard table, and the air was heady with the scent of cypress, dwarf mediterranean pine, and lemon trees. The garden had a cresent-shaped, crystal pool, in the centre, in which stood half a dozen flamingos. Parrots and parakeets, brilliantly coloured, roosted among the trees and shrubs, presumably kept in place with tiny chains. They ordered scallops and pan-friend sea bass in a black olive sauce, accompanied by a bottle of Soave. They sipped martinis while they waited. As the sun set, the ships in the bay shone like a constellation of stars. It was all undeniably beautiful, a stark contrast to what she had planned for her intended victim. "Western bourgeois decadence", she thought, amused, realising that such decadence was something she could very easily get used to. Arya would probably not approve. An intelligence officer has to develop a certain detachment from ideology, but her sister was still young enough to be a true believer in the system. There were a few diners at other tables, set in the garden. 

"I think there's more to you than meets the eye" he remarked. 

"What makes you say that"? 

"You have the air of a woman who can fight. I've met them, over the years." 

"This country has been racked with warfare for the best part of twenty years. Of course, I can fight. I can handle weapons. My parents insisted. They barely escaped with their lives, when they had to flee Petrograd. We avoided the worst in this city, but even so, we once got bombed." 

"Macao. The pearl of the Orient. The one tiny part of it that scarcely touched by the war. You were very lucky. Life in a Japanese prison camp would not have been pleasant, for a woman." "Better than Kolyma, at least I wouldn't freeze", she thought, with a stab of guilt. Their meal arrived, and for a time, they concentrated on the food, which was delicious. They resumed conversation. The Huntsman spoke of his businesses in Formosa, all lies of course. She knew he acted as a security adviser for Chiang Kai-Chek's government. No doubt it gave him free rein to indulge himself in his favourite hobbies. She was fortunate, she replied, not having to work for a living, a woman of means. 

"I almost think I've met you before" said her companion suddenly. She felt a sudden chill. 

"I suppose we might have passed each other in the street, at some point. But, other than that? No, I don't think so." She looked up. The other diners were gone, apart from two men close by, a European and a Chinese, staring at them closely. She had a bad feeling about this. 

"I need to powder my nose. " She reached for her handbag. It contained a gun, disguised in a cigarette case. 

His grip was like iron on her hand. "I don't think so." He was grinning now. "Do you remember when I told you, I'd always be a part of you. Just before you fed me to my hounds. It's been a long, long, time, Lady Sansa. How I've dreamed of meeting my dear wife, again, after all these years!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The atrocities at the childrens' hospital in Wola, during the fight for Warsaw, and at Stuthoff are well-documented. 
> 
> 2\. Formosa is the old name for Taiwan.
> 
> 3\. In much of East Asia, it is good manners to address a woman who uses her maiden name as "Madam."
> 
> 4\. Macao's docks were briefly bombed by the US in WWII.
> 
> 5\. At this stage, France was fighting the Viet Minh. The Kuomintang fled to Formosa in 1948. 
> 
> 6\. In truth, I doubt if the Israeli security forces were operating this far East in the early Fifties. They were certainly pursuing war criminals who settled in Arab countries.


	5. Concrete Boots.

As Gold finished his meal, he looked up. There were only a handful of diners left now, and of the staff, no sign. That was odd. Well, it was time for him to check up on the two love birds. He hadn't yet decided how he would dispose of his quarry. He had left his gun in his hotel room, but carried a knife, in a sheath inside his left sleeve. A gun on his person would be hard to explain away, if he were stopped by the colonial police. But a knife, that would be far easier. He got up casually, and climbed the stairs to the roof garden, taking his drink, a typical tourist enjoying the view across the bay at night. 

Sansa was trapped. He had her hand gripped tight, as the other two men walked towards them. With her left hand, she grabbed her wine glass, driving it into the Huntsman's face. It broke, gashing his cheek. "Bitch!" he snarled, punching her hard in the face, and sending her sprawling. The Chinese kicked her hard, but she rolled away, and leapt up into a fighting crouch, as she faced the three of them. She drew a knife of her own, determined to sell her life dearly if she had to. She felt little fear, but three against one; those were poor odds. Her ex-husband grinned, despite the blood running down his cheek. "I do love a bit of pain. It gets the juices flowing. It's nothing to what I'll do to you, sweet Sansa. " He drew his own knife, admonishing the other two. "No guns, I want her alive. Do you know what I'm going to do to you, dear wife? I've got two dogs in my house. I'm going to mate you to them. Then I'll cut out your eyes and tongue. Then your breasts. You'll be begging for death by then, but you won't receive it for a long time. A very long time." Her three assailants all had knives in their hands. She looked for an opening, but they didn't give her one. She kept backing away, but she was reaching the edge of the roof, its rail behind her. She couldn't retreat forever. The Huntsman was in the middle, the European to her left, the Chinese to her right. The European looked confident, smiling in a faintly indifferent way; his face was pockmarked she noticed. Why did one notice such irrelevant details, at such a time? The wise wait for their moment, but they never let it pass. A slight widening of his eyes alerted her, just before he drove his knife at her face. She ducked to the right, and then drove hard for his throat. She just missed, but gashed his chin. He snarled, but then stared up at her in surprise. Slowly, very slowly, he sunk to his knees, then keeled over. She saw the thrown knife, protruding from his back. 

"Well, well, isn't this the lovers' tiff!" she heard the newcomer say, in Russian, a note of amusement in his voice. A handsome, dark-haired man, in his early twenties, it seemed. The Chinese turned to face him, while the beast continued to advance on her. The parakeets were flapping and screeching now, panicking at the fighting in their midst. She picked up a plate from a table, and flung it at his head. He ducked, as she lunged at him, aiming for his throat. Just in time, he blocked her knife with his own, before kicking her hard in the left shin. She screamed in pain, as he laughed, pursuing her. God, it hurt! she thought as she limped. Was it fractured? 

Gold was unarmed, but remained confident. He knew how to fight with his hands. His enemy viewed him warily, before crouching and driving the knife at his stomach. He caught the man's knife in his right hand, before delivering a good, hard, chop to his windpipe, with his left. The man choked and gurgled, as Gold hugged him close, before kneeing him hard between the legs. He gasped, unable to scream, even as Gold pulled his head down hard, driving his knee into the man's face. Making a noise like a steam kettle, he smashed the man's face into the wall, good and hard, again and again, until his skull was bent out of shape. 

She kept her eyes focused on the Huntsman, each of them ignoring the other fight. He pressed her hard, driving her towards the pool in the centre of the garden, the flamingoes creating an immense racket as they approached. She tried a feint, slipping to her left knee, and then he was on her, lunging down hard. Too late, he realised the trick, as she drove her knife into his right thigh, making him scream. He darted back, turning to escape, only to get her rescuer's fist in his face. He crumpled, falling to the ground. She rose, staring at him, bemused. 

"So, who's my guardian angel?" she asked. "Yitzhak" he replied. "He called you Sansa." She nodded. Then, he laughed. "Not, Sansa the Red Wolf, by any chance? I survived Baranavichy," he explained. "Ehrenburg exaggerated a little" she replied, "but yes, I'm the Red Wolf. It seems we had the same quarry. Thank you" she held out her hand and he shook it. 

"What do we do with this sack of shit?" He asked, glancing down. "Shall I open his throat? " He was unconscious, not dead. "No, I've got other plans. Do you fancy a boat trip?" "Let me get some things from my hotel. It's not far. " She picked up the remains of the Soave, and tipped it over her enemy. For good measure, she added the remnants of a couple of glasses of wine from neighbouring tables. "If we carry him out, we want people to think he's drunk" she explained. He groaned, and Yitzhak hit him hard, again. She cut a segment from a table cloth, tying it round his leg as a tourniquet. Holding him under each shoulder, they hauled him downstairs. The Maitre D' had returned, and stared at them, astonished. "Our friend drank too much, and slipped" Yitzhak explained. "We're helping him home." He handed the man a wad of notes. 

They left, and hailed a taxi. After stopping at the hotel on the way, they made for the harbour, where her fishing boat was moored. They carried the unconscious man on board, to be greeted by a Chinese operative, Li Hung Chan. He brought up a chair, and two lengths of rope. He tied the Huntsman's hands behind his back, before binding his ankles. Then they seated him in the chair. Li started the boat's engine, and guided it towards the sea. Sansa vanished into the cabin, returning with a large basin and a pail on a length of rope. She placed her victim's legs in the basin, before drawing up seawater in the pail, and emptying it into the basin. When she judged there was enough water, she returned to the cabin, coming back with her bag of cement, which she emptied into the basin. 

When the Huntsman regained consciousness, Sansa had the satisfaction of witnessing the various emotions he was experiencing. First bafflement, then fury, then terror, played across his face, as he realised that his legs were tied together in a basin of rapidly-hardening concrete.

"Not long now, sweet husband" she remarked, giving a smile that would have curdled milk. "But, I want to wait until it's properly light". The dawn was just starting to break. 

"You animal, you sick, fucking animal', he snarled. "I'll rape you, I'll flay you, I'll get my dogs to fuck your corpse, you fucking bitch!" Spit flew from his mouth, as he shouted abuse at her, eyes staring wildly. He raved on, calling her cunt, whore, slut, the usual gamut of abuse. She let him continue for a while, before sauntering over, patting him on the right shoulder, and saying gently, "Maybe I'm everything you say that I am. But ask yourself this? Whose position would you rather be in right now? Yours or mine?". She heard Yitzhak chuckle appreciatively. He spat in her face, but she just laughed. 

"Li, would you please fetch my camera?" she asked. Yitzhak raised his eyebrows at this, but she went on to explain "My superiors will expect photographs. They'll be circulated where they'll do most good." It did no harm to remind potential defectors of the fate that awaited them, should they choose to betray the Motherland. 

"You're a hard woman, Sansa, ....and I love you for it" he commented, grinning. 

"It's really too good for him, given the things he's done. Mercy has always been my weakness. I'm sure it'll be the death of me one day."

"Mercy, you callous cunt!" he screamed. "What mercy did you show in Belorussia? What mercy did you ever show at Winterfell? You may think you're good and pure, but you're no better than me at heart!" Yitzhak strode over and punched him hard, in the face, splitting his lip.

He raised his fist again, before mastering himself. "I don't know what lies between the pair of you, but you should thank God that you'll die quickly! You and your filth, you slaughtered my family, my people!" 

"We killed yids. That was pest control!" screamed the Huntsman. "Your fucking people deserved everything they got!" The man clenched his fists, as Sansa took his arm, saying "Don't. He's just trying to goad you into killing him." It was quite light now, and they were at long way out to sea. Sansa took several photographs from various angles, before turning to the others, saying "I think it's about time now. " Li and Yitzhak got up, and raised the man from the chair, as he continued to rave at them. He had lost the ability to stand as the concrete set, and so they had to hold him upright, as Sansa pushed the basin towards the rail of the deck. They propped him against the rail, and took a short break, to recover their breath. Then, between them, they raised the basin and tipped him over the rail, even as he screamed "fucking bitch" for the last time, before he hit the winter. She caught a last glimpse of his face as the concrete dragged him down, and then there was nothing, just a flurry of bubbles.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish" remarked Li, drily. They laughed. 

"Were you really married to that man?" asked the other. 

"It's a very long story, and you wouldn't believe it, even if I told you all about it. It's a part of my past that must remain private. " 

"Fair enough. What now?" 

"Well, I think we've made Macao too hot to hold us. There are still a pair of corpses on top of the roof garden, and I've no desire to spend time as a guest of the colonial police. I suggest we sail for Hong Kong. We can get there in time for lunch. And, then, perhaps, we can enjoy ourselves for a couple of days, before parting company." She looked at him archly. 

"That sounds good to me. " Then "You know, our superiors aren't exactly enemies, but they aren't friends, either. If I were you, I'd redact my involvement in this escapade. I can trust my bosses to be discreet." 

"Point taken. Thank you again" Sansa replied. Has he reached the seabed yet, she wondered? She smiled at the thought. A monster from her past was finally laid to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 1952, relations between the Soviet Union and Israel were fairly cordial, but they would shortly deteriorate.


	6. Funeral Games

Sansa stood alongside her sister, and her parents, Edvard and Katya, among the throng of mourners in Red Square, listening as the great bell of the Kremlin tolled solemnly, at Noon, accompanied by the wail of sirens, followed by a twenty one gun salute. Like many of the crowd, her sister was weeping openly. The Great Helmsman had died, four days previously. A gentle drizzle fell, in keeping with the sombre nature of the proceedings. She barely listened as the leaders, Kruschev, Malenkov, Beria, Molotov, spoke solemnly of the greatness of the dead leader and his achievements. Her mind was focused upon staying alive. She knew now, she had entered a time of great danger. More dangerous in its way than Stalingrad had been. At least you knew who the enemy was in that fight. Now, she was trapped; surrounded by enemies, or friends so dangerous and treacherous that they might just as well be enemies, including the man she served. Upon her return from Macao, Beria had informed her that she would now be reporting directly to him. He had presented it as a great opportunity, which it was in a way. But, it also bound her more closely to the man, making her far more clearly a target to his enemies. He had also expressed an interest in meeting Arya, suggesting he take her to the ballet, the thought of which made her blood run cold. Her sister was slim, small, grey-eyed, still a virgin, looking much younger than her twenty two years. That made her the ideal victim for this predator. She had explained that her sister was approaching her final examinations, and had no time for anything apart from study. She had also repeated to her parents the warning she had given Arya all those months ago; If she were arrested, on no account must they intercede for her - rather they must denounce her. She felt her mother take her hand in her own. She knew that Katya was mourning someone quite different to Stalin, her older brother Robert; a tank commander who had been killed during Operation Polar Star, this very day, ten years ago. Like her, he had received the Order of the Red Banner, in his case posthumously. 

The ceremony drew to a close. The corpse would now be taken to the Mausoleum of Lenin. There was no need for them to join those who wished to see it interred. They had already filed past the coffin of the dead ruler, when it had been displayed in the Hall of Union. She and her sister were joining their parents for lunch, at the Sovietsky Hotel, where they were staying. She'd warned them to mind what they said in their room, as the guests were kept under frequent surveillance. They left the ceremony, and made for the Metro, discussing family business as they travelled to their destination. Edvard would shortly be retiring from the armaments factory he had managed for the past thirty years. He and Katya were thinking of moving to Jurmala, an attractive resort near Riga, much favoured by the elite. Arya would be taking her final examinations that year. Her tutors expected her to be awarded a First Class degree. Sansa made a mental note to try to make sure she got posted to some laboratory in the Far East, about as far away from Beria as possible. They left the subway, and walked up to the entrance of the hotel. Only completed last year, the building was magnificent, intended to be a showpiece to rival the grand hotels of Western Europe. 

"A captain now" remarked her father, as they entered the lobby. "I'm so proud of you. One day, you'll command a regiment." _One day, I'll mount a scaffold, more likely, after having confessed my treason to the Motherland. Or fall victim to a creature like the Huntsman of Baranavichy. Not that he's much different to the creature I serve, really. ___She was quite fatalistic about her chances of survival, but prayed fervently, to the God that she didn't believe in, that her family would be saved.

In the lobby, she suddenly staggered forward, nearly toppled by a slap on the back. She turned furious, only to see the country's greatest hero, grinning at her. "Sansa Silnova, the Red Wolf, herself. After all these years. " Marshal Georgi Zhukov embraced her in a bone-crushing hug. The last time they met had been in Berlin, in 1945. Like everyone else, she'd got very drunk, celebrating the War's end. Unlike everyone else, she'd finished up in the Marshal's bed. He turned to her father, shaking his hand warmly. "Your daughter's a prodigy. "Command a regiment?" She'll command a bloody division by the time she's done." He kissed Arya and Katya on both cheeks, giving her mother in particular, a bold, appraising stare. Even in her fifties, Katya remained a striking woman, with hair like beaten copper and piercing blue eyes. The Marshal's staff stepped forward to greet them in turn. "Now then, what's a bunch of war heroes got to do to get some lubrication in this place?" he enquired loudly, as the Maitre D' descended on them with a crowd of waiters. "You'll join us?" he asked Edvard. "I'd be honoured" he replied. They entered the Zar restaurant, to find a legion of bottles already placed on the Marshal's table. Sansa was careful, well aware that Zhukov could drink her and her family under the table. They dined well, on rassolnik, followed by lamb cutlets, beef stroganoff, cakes and ices, each accompanied by its own wine, and at the end, bumpers of brandy and vodka. Zhukov told a series of war stories, interspersed with tales of Sansa's own bravery. She was a little embarrassed, although she could see that Arya hero-worshipped both her and the Marshal. 

At the end, he drew her aside. The jovial bonhomie had been replaced by a very hard, cold, stare, indeed. "A word to the wise, Sansa. Know when to abandon a sinking ship. Change is coming. I've just been made Deputy Minister of Defence. Some people are on their way out. It would break my heart to learn that you'd been sent before a firing party. I'd never dream of ordering such a thing. Others......well, they might not be so scrupulous." He turned back to her family, smiling and laughing once again, before he and his colleagues left them, most of them quite unsteady on their feet. Was that a threat or a warning? Either way, it confirmed all her fears. She said farewell to her parents, and travelled home with Arya. Her sister was rather drunk for once. She made a point of tucking her into bed, and leaving her plenty of water, before she went to sleep. 

Early next morning, there was a car waiting for her, driven by Shuvalov. Beria wanted to speak to her. As before, she was driven to the Kremlin. He greeted her, before talking of the funeral, and the general political situation. It had been agreed that Malenkov would serve as Premier, and he, as First Deputy. She suspected he would be the true ruler, Malenkov his puppet. He reiterated his plans for reform. Then,"I see you dined with the Marshal. I take it you are friends?" 

"He awarded me my Order of the Red Banner. I think he thought of me as a protege, in the closing months of the War." 

"You are aware that he fell into disfavour, due to his corruption?" 

"I knew something of the matter, Excellency" she replied, cautiously. Zhukov had been demoted from Commander in Chief to Commander in the Urals, and removed from the Central Committee of the Party and Supreme Soviet, allegedly for possessing eight wagonloads of goods looted from Germany. That might or might not have been true, but the man sitting opposite had never scrupled to grow rich on the property of his victims, nor to take advantage of their wives and daughters. No, the real reason he had been downgraded was due to Stalin's suspicion of any potential rival. He had been partially rehabilitated, restored to the Central Committee and Supreme Soviet the previous year. Beria interrupted her thoughts: 

"He ought not to have been reinstated. The Party is entitled to expect the highest ethical standards from its members." She kept a poker face, knowing what this man was guilty of. "Nonetheless, your friendship can be of service to the State. I have little doubt that he continues to line his own pockets. I want you to find evidence of this. You have his confidence. Spend time with him. Find evidence, and you may expect to be richly rewarded. " _Do this, and I can expect a bullet in the head! Frame Zhukov! The man is mad! Or desperate. _. "Fail me in this......"_ Body found floating in the canal, battered and decomposed beyond recognition._

"You may rely on me, Excellency" she replied stolidly. She rose to leave. 

"One further thing, the leader of the UPA cell you infiltrated, Stepan Timoshenko, I believe his name was?" 

"Yes. I understand he received five years hard labour, in a camp of strict regime." 

"A lenient sentence, in the circumstances. You suggested he might be turned. I've told you that a certain liberalisation will be necessary. I shall adopt your suggestion. Let our Ukrainian comrades know that the Party forgives those of our people who truly repent, and seek to make amends for their wrongdoing. You may go now." 

If nothing else, at least she had saved one family, she thought, as she left. If anything, Stepan's prospects were a good deal brighter than her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There is a widespread belief that Stalingrad shifted the balance of power on the Eastern front to the Soviets. That is not so. At the same time that the Red Army was crushing the Sixth Army at Stalingrad, it was sustaining severe losses, during Operation Polar Star (intended to break the siege of Leningrad). 250,000 soldiers were killed or injured, to very little effect. Subsequently, the Germans inflicted a major defeat on the Soviets at Kharkov, in March 1943. Up until the battle of Kursk, in July 1943, the front line was essentially where it had been a year previously. Kursk however, was a major German defeat, and was their last major offensive on the Eastern front. Despite the Germans winning plenty of local victories subsequently, the initiative had passed to the Soviets from that point on.
> 
> 2\. The Silnovs did well to avoid the Mausoleum. Scores were killed in a stampede. In the Death of Stalin, this was portrayed as the NKVD firing into the crowd (in fact, the NKVD had been renamed the MGB at this point).
> 
> 3\. The Sovietsky Hotel was Moscow's luxury showpiece, completed in 1952. It was also a hotbed of espionage.
> 
> 4\. Jurmala is a town on the Gulf of Riga, popular as a spa and resort since the late eighteenth century. There is (or was, I was last there eighteen years ago) a kind of faded grandeur about it, but it was very much an elite destination in the Soviet era.
> 
> 5\. Marshal Zhukov was very much a ladies' man. Unlike Beria, however, all his relationships were consensual. His character here, is very much as portrayed in the Death of Stalin. He fell into disfavour in 1946, being demoted to lesser commands, and reprimanded for enriching himself with war booty. The allegations were probably correct, but all the leaders enriched themselves likewise. From 1950, he was gradually restored to favour.


	7. Feasting with Panthers

A week after the funeral, Sansa was travelling to the garden party hosted by the new Minister of Defence, Nikolai Bulganin, seated with Beria in the back of the car. On the other side of her sat Bogdan Kobulov, her boss' chief henchman, a man with extremely wandering hands. Not the company she would have preferred at a social gathering, but needs must. Beria had pointed out that the occasion gave her another opportunity to renew her friendship with Marshal Zhukov, who would be present. He expected results, and swiftly. 

"I intend to release Dmitri" he commented. Her former lover, arrested during the Leningrad Affair. 

"I'm very glad to hear it, Excellency." 

"You deserve a reward. Besides, there is general agreement among the Party leadership that excesses were committed in the past. Many people will be released from the camps." Few people were more responsible for such "excesses" than the man sitting next to her. "One good turn deserves another" he continued. God above, she knew what he meant! She was expected to trade Arya's body for that of her boyfriend. Many women had offered themselves to him, to spare loved ones whom he had arrested. It occurred to her that he might just kidnap Arya, if her sister failed to go with him of her own will. It had happened to other girls. It helped fortify her resolve to do what she had planned. 

They drove up a gravel drive, and parked in front of the house. They joined the other guests. The day was cool, but clear. She guessed there were almost a hundred present, including some of the highest ranking figures in government, and their wives. She found herself talking to Polina Molotova for a while. The poor woman looked like a ghost, having only recently been released from imprisonment. Yet, she remained a true believer. 

"I fainted when I heard of the death of Comrade Stalin. He can never be replaced.. Of course, I bear him no ill will. The needs of the Party must take priority over the needs of any of its members." Sansa made a noncommittal reply, and they drifted apart. She accepted a glass of wine, and a vol au vent from a passing servant. She found herself talking briefly to the great man's son, Vasily, incoherent with drink as usual. The man made a clumsy pass at her, which she avoided politely, before closing in on her quarry, Marshal Zhukov. 

"I think my sister is in love with you, sir", she remarked smiling. "Thank you again, for such a wonderful meal. My parents were hugely flattered." 

"Georgi. You and I should always be on first name terms, Sansa." They spent a few minutes discussing military matters. Then, she asked "May we talk alone, briefly?" 

"Thirty minutes, in the study. The one place I can be sure isn't bugged" he replied. She saw Beria give her a slight nod of approval, as she chatted to the Marshal. He approached the pair of them.

"What a pleasure it is to see you restored to office, Georgi. I was always convinced of your innocence, and pleaded your case vigorously to the Vozhd. I fear he was jealous of your war record " 

"I'm grateful for your efforts. I've no hard feelings. Our boss could be a difficult man, but I don't think anyone else could have led us to victory." 

Quite so. A titan has left us. Obviously, you are acquainted with this excellent young woman. I understand she was something of a protégé of yours in the War." 

"She was, Lavrenti. A true national heroine." 

"I've sometimes thought that one person's hero or heroine, can so easily be another person's villain. You, Sansa, and I are heroes in the eyes of the Party. Yet, I wonder whether a Pole, a Ukrainian, or a Balt would see us in quite such terms. Sansa, a Marshal of the Soviet Union is inevitably a busy man. Might I speak privately, Georgi, for a few moment?" They drifted apart. Was there a warning, a threat in Beria's comments? A suggestion perhaps, that either one of them might be used a scapegoat for the repression of national movements in Eastern Europe? 

She excused herself from the gathering, saying she wished to powder her nose, and made for the study. There she found the Marshal, smoking a cigar.

"I must be frank," she began. "The Deputy Premier believes you to be his most dangerous enemy. He is making his own bid for power. He intends to make a clean sweep of his enemies. He has asked me to find evidence that you are corrupt, in order to get rid of you. In the event that I fail to find such evidence, you are likely to read a brief report one day that a young woman's body was found floating in the city's canal, too badly decomposed and beaten to be identified."

"You're asking me to pity you?"

"I'm asking you to appreciate that my survival is in both of our best interests."

Zhukov remained silent for some time, puffing away at his cigar. "What makes you think I should believe you?"

"I have nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by disclosing this information to you."

"Really? Perhaps the Deputy Premier has a jealous underling, who seeks to profit from his downfall. Perhaps he has a cunning subordinate who seeks to lure me into committing treason."

"I assure you, my main interest is in my own survival."

"So you say. My main interest is in my own survival, as well. You're making very serious allegations against a party comrade for whom I have the utmost respect. He and I go back a long time. A very long time. Comrade Beria was indispensable to the victory over the fascists. He assured me that he spoke up on my behalf to our late boss. No Sansa, I would like to believe you, but I don't. And I think I've got no option but to report this conversation to your boss. It shows extreme disloyalty on your part. I would have thought better of you" She felt sick. How could she have so misinterpreted his comments at the hotel, after the lunch? Execution was the least she could expect now. And, oh God, Arya!

She was interrupted by a bellow of laughter from the Marshal. "God above, Sansa, you should have seen the look on your face, just now!" It took him some time to control his mirth. 

"Yes, of course I believe you Sansa. You think I really believed that bullshit about him pleading my case to the boss? I'd have been sent to the camps if he'd had his way. I'm grateful for you telling me, but it's exactly what I'd expect from that cunt. You're not telling me anything new. The question is, what we do about you? Your boss will expect results. Otherwise, you'll be in trouble. Your family too." 

"My sister in particular." 

Zhukov nodded. "Yes, she'd be just his type." He thought for a time. Then "I think the answer lies in East Germany. I was accused of looting the homes and estates of the Junckers who fled before us. Well, I didn't do what any other soldier hasn't done throughout history. Our mutual friend didn't scruple to line his own pockets, during the War or since. I could come up with "evidence" that I didn't hand over everything to the Party that I was supposed to hand over, that there are still valuables that I hid in safe repositories in Kustrin and Dresden, and the like. You'll have to travel out there to investigate."

"Why do you want me there?" 

"Matters are coming to a head, there. Your boss is willing to see the East and West reunite, in return for their neutrality. That's not popular with the army. And, it's certainly not popular with other key figures in the Party leadership. Trouble is coming. We could do with someone on the ground that we can trust. Do, we have a deal?" He held out his hand, and Sansa shook it, relief flooding her.

"Now, let's rejoin the party, separately. You go first." She walked to the door, turning to ask him "Do you think you can beat him?" 

"I fucked the Germans. I think I can fuck some twat in a waistcoat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Polina Molotova and her husband remained committed Stalinists for the remainder of their lives, despite her enduing three years of dreadful imprisonment. She did indeed faint when she heard the news of her death. Beria himself came to tell her that she was freed.
> 
> 2\. In the Death of Stalin, Zhukov plays this rather frightening joke on Kruschev. The garden party is inspired by a similar scene in Power Play, a fictionalised version of Edward Lutwak's book on how to stage a coup d'etat.
> 
> 3\. Beria was prepared to trade German reunification for neutrality, something which many leading Communists objected to.


	8. Drive to the East

Sergeant Dubretskoi whiled away the long hours, as they travelled by train from Warsaw, reading his favourite erotic novel, Countess of Blood, confiscated from a disgraced fellow operative.

_"Pyotr choked with lust, as his mistress appeared before him in the stables, clad only in a pair of spurred riding boots, whip in hand. She had untied her beautiful auburn tresses, which hung loose to her shoulders. Her nipples had stiffened in the cool night air. He shivered with anticipation as she lightly drew the knout across his shoulders. "Young sir, you are to be my slave henceforth. Does that thought excite you?" He nodded, "Now, kneel before me. If I ask you to lick the horseshit from my boots, you will do as I command, and then you will thank me for the privilege. But, I have another task for you. " He got down on both knees and she drew his head up, between her thighs. He inhaled the musky aroma of her sex and then set to his task, lapping at her cunt, like a dog at a water bowl..…."_

__

He looked up at Captain Silnova, reading her report, seated opposite, imagining her as the depraved Countess, and himself as her devoted groom. He remembered her comment to that Ukrainian partisan, Stepan, was that his name? about preferring to give a beating than take it. He'd pay good money to take a beating at the hands of his boss, tied naked to a chair, perhaps with a birch rod, or dog whip, to get the juices flowing. Military uniform only showed off her figure to better effect. Strong, muscular arms and thighs, and curves in all the right places. She surely had to be a strict disciplinarian, in this line of work, just like the women who had worked at the orphanage where he had been raised. Actually, it took a considerable amount of prolonged pain, before he got truly roused. He sighed inwardly. There was simply no way that he could ever tell her what he truly desired from her. 

__

Simultaneously, Sansa looked up, and smiled at him, unaware of his thoughts. She glanced too at Yezhov, playing chess against himself, on a small travelling set. They were still at least an hour from the frontier with East Germany. She resumed re-reading her report “On Measures to Improve the Health of the Political Situation in the GDR". She was familiar with the document, but wanted to be sure that she not overlooked any salient point. There was no doubt that trouble was brewing. The country had been left impoverished by the vast reparations paid to the Soviet Union; that didn't bother her, nor for that matter, the fact that there were still several thousand German prisoners of war in her country, labouring to put right the damage they'd caused. She had shared the anger that so many of her fellow soldiers felt, when they invaded the Reich in January 1945, to find that the inhabitants enjoyed a standard of living far in excess of their own. They, who had so much, had still not scrupled to plunder poorer nations. She had however, drawn the line at the mass rape that had disfigured the campaign. She had pointed out, to her superiors, that many of the victims were the wives and daughters of men who had supported anti-fascist parties, who had even been party comrades, prior to the Nazi takeover; and that such excesses would only make it harder to reconcile the population to Communist rule. They had seen the sense of that, and had authorised her to pursue "the gravest measures" against those under her authority who were guilty. She had carried out half a dozen executions. A drop in the ocean, but something to weigh against the innocent lives she had taken over the years. The innocent lives she would take very shortly, if all went well.

__

_"Really, little dove. It's a bit too late now to agonise over the fate of innocents. That ship sailed a long time ago. I like you. Truly I do. When you ruled the North, you made me look good by comparison. And now, do you really think that the Poles and Ukrainians deserved the murder and torture that you visited on them? Do you seriously imagine the people in your camp were all guilty? Granted, you weren't at all cruel for a concentration camp commander, but, that's not exactly a high hurdle to jump, is it?_

____

Another hateful voice from her past life! She recovered, and resumed reading. Huge increases in working hours had been demanded of factory workers, without additional pay; at the same time, swingeing price increases had been ordered for food and fuel; the remaining farms and businesses , in private hands, were in the process of being nationalised, resulting in widespread flight to the West; as a result, hundreds of thousands of hectares were untended. the churches were being persecuted. There was a danger of widespread economic and societal collapse, the very last thing that Beria wanted right now. He had won the support of the Politburo, in demanding that the Eastern leader, Ulbricht, must change course.

____

He had been delighted, too, when Sansa had provided him with her evidence that Zhukov had salted away huge sums in hard currency, as well as gems, artworks and furniture, after having assured the Party leadership that all such items had been surrendered. His eyes had gleamed.

____

"I'll have him by the balls" he had laughed at their meeting. Then he frowned "How did you discover this?"

____

"Not all of his people are loyal to him. He steals other men's' credit. That causes resentment."

"That's true enough. Throughout the war, he claimed the credit for every victory, while passing the blame for every defeat to others. Chuikov and Konev hated him for it." 

"The items are located in safe repositories in the GDR. I'll need to go out there, to gather more evidence, before you take action" she'd commented.

____

"Of course, and you can do a lot of good, while you're out there. " He had talked to her of the problems that were being caused by the East German leadership. They had to be reined in, he explained. "It's madness. They're on the point of provoking an uprising among the people who should be our staunchest supporters, the industrial workers. Not, that there's any reason for us to be there, anyway."

"Really?" 

"It's not a proper state. Without our army stationed there, it would fall apart. A neutral, unified, Germany is in our best interests." 

"What do your colleagues think?" 

"Huh, they're only interested in land-grabbing, regardless of cost." He had authorised her to leave, for the GDR, with her subordinates. She was to satisfy herself that Zhukov was guilty of theft, and to make it very clear to the East German leadership that they must change course. The Politburo had already made that plain to Ulbricht, when he visited Moscow. She was to reinforce that message. After she had left, she had pondered on this conversation. It occurred to her, that she might have the means now, to bring Beria down for good. 

A couple of days later, she found herself talking to Zhukov, in his office at the Ministry of Defence. She recounted her conversation with Beria, and pitched her suggestion to him. He stared at her long and hard. Then, he picked up his 'phone to his superior, Bulganin, explaining that he needed to see immediately. Bulganin evidently agreed, for He led the pair of them through the Ministry to the man's office. They both sat before him, her heart beating with nervous excitement.

"Nikolai, this is Captain Silnova. She works for the First Deputy Premier. She will shortly be leaving for East Germany on his instructions. Sansa, tell the Minister your plan." 

Honestly, her idea made her feel sick. If it failed, she would die. If it succeeded. innocents would die. "Comrade Beria wishes me to find evidence to frame the Marshal on charges of corruption. He considers him to be his most dangerous enemy. He intends to make a clean sweep of his enemies, in coming months. He considers you an enemy, as well." The Minister remained impassive. "I think that the situation in East Germany gives you the opportunity to strike at him. I understand that the entire Politburo is aware of how.....febrile the position is out there. Beria wants to withdraw the army from East Germany, and create a neutral German state." 

"Go on," Bulganin prompted, giving nothing away. 

"He's sent me there, because I've pretended to him that the Marshal has deposited stolen goods in the country. I'm to find more evidence. And, he wants me to reinforce to the East German leadership the need for reform. It occurs to me that if I brought the opposite message, that privately, the majority of the Politburo expect the East German party to stand firm, and continue on its present course, we could provoke the very uprising that my boss fears. That would leave him discredited. You could move against him. We have a huge army in East Germany. I'm sure they'd be quite capable of crushing any uprising, with the backing of the Volkspolizei. " 

"I'm certain of it" commented Zhukov. 

Bulganin smiled, chilling, feral. "Out of the mouths of babes and infants...…" he finally said. "I like it. I like it a lot. Give me twenty four hours to think this over, but this makes good sense. And what do you want out of this, Captain Silnova?" 

"My life. Marriage to my boyfriend. A transfer back to the regular army, with promotion to Major. My boyfriend had begun his career in the diplomatic service. I want him to be reinstated at the rank he would have achieved by now, and given back pay for his years of imprisonment. A job for my sister with the Department of Technical Chemistry, once she's qualified. I don't think that's a lot to ask for, to get this man out of all our hair." 

"I believe that could be arranged" replied the Minister. 

The train slowed as they approached the frontier. Bulganin had modified her plan. The nationalisation decrees and the persecution of the churches must be rescinded. That message would also be given to the Red Army high command in the country. However, the increase in work quotas for industrial employees and price increases, were to be maintained. The workers would be enraged to see a government which was meant to represent their interests yielding to the middle classes and the clergy, while cracking down on them. Bulganin was confident that Soviet agents on the shopfloor could generate the desired result. 

_I'm no better than the Queen in the North _she thought. But the die was cast. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.__

____

____

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Has Sansa crossed a line into outright evil? What do you think?
> 
> 2\. The report Sansa is reading was presented to the Soviet Politburo in April 1953. The East German situation was as described.
> 
> 3\. Mass rape, perpetrated by some Soviet soldiers in Spring 1945, remains a touchy subject. It's covered in Anthony Beevor's book, The Fall of Berlin, a book which aroused great anger in Russia. It must be borne in mind that the Germans and their allies did even worse in the Soviet Union. There were decent army officers, like Sansa, who tried to prevent it.
> 
> 4\. Beria's comment about East Germany not being a proper state is authentic.
> 
> 5\. Walter Ulbricht was First Secretary of the East German Communist Party. Marshals Chuikov and Konev had some rivalry with Zhukov. Chuikov, the commander at Stalingrad, considered that his own role in the German defeat was underplayed. Konev competed with Zhukov to seize Berlin in 1945.


	9. Crisis of Conscience

Katya prayed, in the small church of St. Olga, a short walk from her apartment in Leningrad. Reopened in 1946, it was a place of beauty, where she could reflect on her life and those of her family. Her visits were very occasional. The persecution of the Orthodox had ceased during the War, but even so, regular attendance would reflect badly on her husband, in the eyes of the Party. She prayed that God would forgive the sins that she and her husband had committed to survive the years of horror. Edvard had denounced colleagues to the authorities, had no choice in the matter, if he wished to live. She never had, but nor had she needed to. She had lived well, as the wife of a senior manager. They had a smart four bedroom apartment, a dacha ten miles from the city, and had never known privation, except for a short while after the Revolution. Even during the Siege, they had enough to eat, unlike thousands of poor wretches who had starved to death. She shuddered at the memory of stepping over frozen emaciated corpses in the snow. But she knew full well that the government her husband and daughter served was evil. And, she knew just as well that she herself was a beneficiary of that evil. Evil which she had never protested against. To do so would have been suicidal, but it still made her complicit. 

She prayed for the soul of her dead son, Robert. They had never even found his remains, after his tank took a direct hit. A posthumous award of the Order of the Red Banner was cold comfort. She prayed for Arya to be kept safe in Moscow, and free from the temptations that a great city offered. And then, she prayed for Sansa. She prayed a long, long time, for her beloved daughter, as she always did. The daughter she feared above all, was on the path to hell. She had been so proud of what Sansa had done in the war, while at the same time being desperately afraid for her safety. But, she feared there was very little she could be proud of after that. There was a clear unspoken agreement that she, her husband, and Sansa would never discuss her work, other than her promotions and wartime service, and occasional mentions that she would be away for long periods. She was well aware that her daughter worked for the MGB, no longer a part of the regular army. No fool, she had some idea of what that must entail. Assassinations, murder of prisoners, torture, beatings. She had heard some very nasty rumours about her daughter's actions in Krakow, in the months after the War, although she never asked her for details. Tales of torture and hangings. Sometimes, she found herself wondering if Sansa actually enjoyed inflicting cruelty, a truly awful thought. That was not the girl she had been, who had enjoyed singing, and writing poetry, and who had cried when her pet dog had died. No, they had never discussed her work, save just the once. She had been very worried for her daughter after her arrest. Edvard had warned her that she would only be putting Sansa in danger by trying to intercede for her. Well, thank God, she had been released. She had told her parents she would be spending a long time in the Far East, an important assignment. It was from one of her friends that she learned what her daughter was actually doing. Running a prison camp. The thought of it sickened her.

Sansa had visited her parents, on her return from the East. She had lost weight, looked haunted in a way. Edvard had retired to bed after supper, leaving the pair of them in the sitting room. Katya had poured them both large glasses of brandy. A nervous silence lay between the pair. She took a long sip, gathering the courage to ask the questions she had to ask. 

"Sansa" she said gently. "These past eighteen months. How did you live with yourself?" Her daughter's head shot up. She said nothing for a long while, before replying; 

"I buried myself in literature. I drank. I tried not to think about what was happening around me." 

"And, did you succeed?" Again, a long pause. 

"No. How could I? Do you think I enjoyed watching people die of disease and cold? Would you? Do you think I'm a monster?" 

"I don't know what to think, Sansa." It was the wrong thing to say, she realised, reflecting later. She should have comforted her daughter, given her unconditional love. 

"How dare you, mother! What choice do you think I had?"

"You had choices, Sansa. You could have left the army, at the War's end, gone on to university."

"I did what I'm good at. Fighting, intelligence work. Protecting my country. Is that a crime? There aren't many women who've won commissions. I'll bet you weren't slow to boast about your daughter's achievements at the end of the War. " 

"You're right. I wasn't. But, is there anything to boast of now?."

"Believe it or not, Mother, I saved lives. Stopping guards abusing prisoners; stopping prisoners from abusing each other. Getting rid of their lice and vermin, doing everything I could to make sure they were fed and given medical treatment. How dare you judge me! Look at this! " Sansa was shouting now, on her feet.. "Look at all of this. " She pointed to the fine furnishings, the silver tea service, the paintings on the wall. "Where do you think this comes from? You've spent your life closing your eyes to everything that goes on around you, and you have the brass neck to condemn me! You make me sick!" She stormed out of the room, and slammed the door behind her. Later in the night, Katya heard her crying in her room. She longed to take her in her arms and comfort her, but feared it would only make things worse. Sansa had left at dawn the next day. It had taken a year before they were reconciled.

Oh God. She knew there was truth in her daughter's accusations. She was one of the privileged elite, as much as she had been, prior to 1917. Her family had been wealthy bourgeois, like her husband's, factory owners. No doubt, the condition of their workers had been abysmal, not that she had ever given thought to it at the time. Even in war, her world had been one of balls and dinner parties. She had married Edvard in 1916, on his return from the Front. Then, the storm had burst. They had lost everything, only to be restored to favour after a couple of years. Their life had been comfortable, ever since. But that comfort had been purchased at the expense of others. No, she had no right to judge the daughter who had made the same awful compromises that she and Edvard had. But, still she prayed for her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The clergy and members of the Russian Orthodox church suffered cruel persecution in the Twenties and Thirties. This ceased, after the start of the German invasion, as Stalin realised he needed the backing of the Orthodox. The Church flourished, and the number of churches in use rose from 500 to 20,000 in 1959, when Kruschev resumed persecution, albeit with far less brutality than previously. Persecution fell away after 1965, but still flared up intermittently. Even so, Party members were not supposed to be church members, although a blind eye might be turned on occasion.
> 
> 2\. The Siege of Leningrad, which lasted from 1941 to 1944 was ghastly. Over half a million civilians died, many of them from starvation. In Season 8 of A Game of Thrones, Tyrion, Varys, and Jon seemed to think that starving the population of Kings Landing was the "humane" alternative to taking it by storm. That simply shows Ding and Dong's ignorance of military matters. Starvation is in fact a far crueller method of death than death by sword or fire.


	10. How it Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains torture

As the train halted at the frontier with East Germany, Dubretskoi put down his novel, thinking about the first time he'd met the captain, seven years ago in Krakow.

Corporal Dubtretskoi sighed for the hundredth time, as he turned to see Yezhov delicately pick his nose, before carefully examining the results on the end of his finger. He wiped it on his trousers.

"Do you have to do that Yezhov? It's disgusting." 

"Sorry, sir" replied the young private..

"Concentrate on what you're supposed to be doing. Not on your fucking snot. And, put your gloves on. You can't do anything useful if your fingers are frozen. 

"Of course, sir."

The night was actually bloody freezing, snow and ice everywhere. Still only February. Allocated to work for Lieutenant Silnova, the woman made famous as the Red Wolf, this was his first mission. She'd acquired other nicknames now. The Hangwoman, Lady Stoneheart. At least, that's what some of her fellow soldiers called her. He knew the counter-revolutionaries had a nastier nickname. In a deliberate call-back to the Nazis, they referred to her as The Beautiful Beast. They'd made an attempt to kidnap her, which had resulted in two of them being killed. By all accounts, she was one cold-blooded bitch, which she needed to be, of course, to succeed in this line of work. He shivered in the night air, as he and Yezhov loitered in the shadows, hiding among the rubbish bins that served the apartment block. The population in Krakow plainly hated the Red Army; the fucking bastards had made that clear. They'd liberated them from the fascists, but obviously, some of them preferred the fascists. Fuck them! The Lieutenant was good at tracking down counter-revolutionaries, and she'd be leading the assault tonight. He took a long swig from his hip flask, then handed it to Yezhov, who sipped at it. 

"We take him alive, Yezhov, remember that. Dead men are no good to anybody." 

"Understood sir." They were both armed with pistols, but had strict instructions to use them only as a last resort. The Lieutenant was definitely not a woman to cross. They both held rubber truncheons in their gloved hands, their shared intention being to knock their quarry unconscious. His breath steamed in the freezing air. 

Suddenly, he heard a commotion from the building. Silnova and the others must have slipped in, and had then broken down the door to the second floor apartment where the target lived. He nudged Yezhov, and the two of them watched very closely. An upstairs window flew open, and a rope was flung out of it, snaking down to the bottom. A couple of seconds later, a burly figure appeared in the window, his back to the pair of them. Quick as a flash, he grabbed the rope, and shimmied down the side of the apartment block, as he and his colleague raced over to intercept the man. They reached him as he hit the ground. Snarling, the man turned and swung his fist into Dubretskoi's face, felling him immediately. He rolled away on the ground, and reached for his pistol, thinking to shoot him in the leg. But, Yezhov was equal to the occasion, slamming his truncheon into the back of the miscreant's head, and sending him sprawling. "My thanks, Yezhov" he said, as he rose to his feet, brushing the snow off his clothing. He took out a pair of cuffs, rolled the man on to his front, and snapped them tight, on his wrists. The fugitive was out cold. He could hear screams and shouts from the building, but eventually, Lieutenant Silnova appeared, with a couple of her men. She knelt down, checking for a pulse. She nodded with approval before saying "Good work, the pair of you. Now, bring him back with us."

The pair of them carried the man to one of the GAZ jeeps that was waiting in the street, and laid him out in the back. Yezhov sat next to him. Dubretskoi took the wheel, and the Lieutenant got into the passenger side. He drove them all back to the Montelupich Prison, as grim and forbidding a building as it had ever been. Then they dragged the man downstairs, through dank corridors, to a cellar, containing a desk, and a couple of chairs. Oddly, a field telephone had been placed on the desk, he had no idea why. The Lieutenant switched the light on. "That's a bad black eye you've got there" she said solicitously. "Yezhov would you please get Corporal Dubretskoi a damp cloth for his eye, and bring us a bucket of water. " As the man left, she ordered him "undress our friend, and tie him to this chair". When he had finished, she offered him a cigarette, which he took gladly, Yezhov returned with the necessary items, and he happily pressed the cloth to his eye. "Wake him up" she commanded Yezhov. The latter emptied the water over the head of their prisoner, and the man came round, spluttering,

"Welcome traitor" she said sweetly, in Polish. Dubretskoi was passable in the language, but the Lieutenant was fluent. The prisoner glared at her. "I want to ask you some questions, and I'd like you to give me the answers. That's not too hard now, is it? Let's start off with something easy. Your name is Tadeuz Kaminski, but you call yourself Adam Kowalski, isn't that correct?" The man answered with a voluble flood of abuse, speaking far too rapidly for Dubretskoi to follow, although the caught the words "whore", "bitch" and "cunt" among the rest. Lieutenant Silnova smiled nastily, before saying, "as you wish." She took out two lengths of wire and got up, walking to the other side of the desk. She looked down at the prisoner, thoughtfully, before wrapping one wire round his left ear, the other round the little finger on his left hand. Then, she fitted the other end of each wire into ports in the field telephone. "Dubretskoi, wind up the 'phone would you, for about ten seconds." He turned the crank, and the man shrieked as he was electrocuted, jerking up and down like a puppet on a string. Truth to tell, Dubretskoi found it very hard to keep a straight face, so comical was the sight. Yezhov was smiling, he noticed. 

He stopped. The Lieutenant waited a short while for the prisoner to recover, before continuing. "You see, we can keep this up all night, if you want. So long as you use a weak current, electric shocks are very rarely lethal. However, I'm sure you'll wish that they were, before too long." She nodded again to Dubretskoi, who gave a few turns of the crank, as the man howled. "Cat got your tongue, has it?", she enquired, as the man panted, breathing hoarsely. "I asked you a very simple question, now give me the answer." 

"You'll get nothing from me!, you fucking witch" the prisoner hissed at her. "Ma'am" suggested Dubretskoi "we could tie one of the wires round his prick?" 

"An excellent suggestion. I can see, you're getting the hang of this. Go to it." Dubretskoi did as he was bid, detaching the wire from the man's little finger, before fixing it to the more sensitive area of his anatomy. Then he turned the crank half a dozen more times, being rewarded with some ear-splitting shrieks. The man broke, soon after that, singing like a canary. Of course, he had to turn the handle quite a few times still, in order that they could verify what the man was telling them. By the end, the prisoner was sitting in a pool of his own shit and piss. Yes, he thought, staring at Lieutenant Silnova, beautiful, cool, impassive, drawing on her cigarette, that is one cold-blooded bitch. He fell in love with her that very night. More than once, he would dream of being tied to the chair, while she turned the handle.

"It's been quite the journey, Ma'am" he remarked to her, as the train lurched forward. She nodded, thinking back to the first night they had met. Her men would never know that after the interrogation had ended. and when she had left the room, she had bolted for the toilet, and been violently and repeatedly sick. Nor had she slept for two nights afterwards. What could she do? Her superiors had given her a job, to root out counter-revolutionaries in the city, and when your bosses give you a job, you just have to do it to the best of your ability. And, these men were traitors after all. She'd acted in the best interests of her own country, and the Polish people. Throughout her time in Krakow, she had pretended a hardness she had never felt. So impressed had her superiors been at her efforts, she'd been promoted to Senior Lieutenant, when her assignment there came to an end. Over time, the nausea had faded, but the guilt never went away. She wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. What she planned to do now was evil, she knew, but she had to get out of this life, and she had to keep Arya safe. _Omlettes and eggs. _The wisdom of the ages in three words.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Electric torture became popular with police and security services after World War II. It was used extensively by the French, as well as some US State, and British colonial, police forces. It has the advantage that so long as a weak current is used, one can inflict immense pain on the victim, without running the risk of killing or permanently maiming them. Some people in fact, thought it quite humane at the time, for that reason.
> 
> 2\. Montelupich Prison had a grim reputation during both the German occupation, and in the Communist era. At this stage, the Soviets and the United Workers Party were in the process of suppressing and eliminating anti-communist political parties in Poland. Krakow in particular, hated the Communists.


	11. The Plot Thickens

There are times when you meet a person, and the mutual dislike is instant. This was one of them. It was her first day in the capital, and she had spent the best part of an hour at the Soviet Mission , discussing the situation with Vladimir Semyonov, Political Counsellor to East Germany. The true ruler of the country, really. Plainly, he resented getting instructions from Moscow via a mere Captain, and a woman to boot. Nor did the mention of Zhukov's name mollify him in any way. She knew he resented the Marshal's claiming credit for the victory at Stalingrad, credit he believed was due to him and his commander, General Chuikov. He glared at her, through thick spectacles. 

"You're taking a lot on yourself, aren't you?" he eventually remarked. "Tell me, are you Marshal Zhukov's creature, or Comrade Beria's? Which one do you serve?" 

"I serve the State, your Excellency. Somebody has to. " 

"Strange. I was under the impression you served the First Deputy Premier. I understood your boss favoured a certain relaxation of controls in this country. Now you say, Moscow's instructions are that our comrades in government must stand firm against the industrial workers. There have been strikes, food riots, even assaults on party comrades, in recent weeks. There's a real prospect of an uprising. If it comes to it, I have the men to put down rebellion, but how do you think this will look to the West? They'll use it for their propaganda. Tell me, if I were to get on the 'phone to Comrade Beria, do you think he'd back you up?" 

The moment she'd been dreading for weeks. But, she'd made her choice. It was time to roll the dice. " I would not recommend that course of action, Excellency." 

"And why ever not?" 

"Change is afoot in Moscow. If I were in your shoes" she looked at him very intently, "I would not wish to be caught backing the losing side. That could prove fatal. "More people worship the rising than the setting Sun" she quoted.

"You're actually threatening me? A junior officer?" 

"Not in the least, Excellency. I'm advising you." She'd learned at any early stage, never to reveal her inner fears, in this kind of situation. That would be fatal. There was a long, tense silence, as her fate hung in the balance. 

Then, "I've received similar advice from my old friend." She knew who he meant, Chuikov, Commander of the Occupation forces in the GDR. Who now found himself reporting to Zhukov once again, as it happened. Inwardly, she breathed a sigh or relief. 

"Well, well, a rare misstep on the part of Comrade Beria, it seems. He can have no idea just what a viper he's been nurturing in his bosom. Very well, I shall make it crystal clear to our Eastern comrades, just what is expected of them. As for you, frankly, I feel like I need a bath after this conversation. Get out of my office. " Sansa rose and left the room. She made her way to a bathroom, and tried to light a cigarette, only to drop her lighter, her hands were shaking so much. God above, the man had given her a scare just then! Eventually, she calmed down, and left the building, to where Dubretskoi and Yezhov were waiting for her, with their jeep. 

As they drove slowly towards the barracks at Karlshorst, where they were quartered, she could see the truth of Semyonov's words. No one dared overtly to threaten Soviet soldiers of course, but she noticed the filthy looks that some passers-by gave them. Here and there, SED propaganda posters had been torn down or defaced. She knew that the party was divided between its hardliners and its reformists, and the public at large sensed that. As they drove, she wondered what it was like actually to be ruled by a government that the people had voted for. She was well aware that such elections as existed in the East were fraudulent. She'd been responsible for a fair amount of that fraud herself, back in Poland. She'd struck known opponents of the United Workers Party off the electoral roll, invented fake names to put on the registers, stuffed ballot boxes, supervised fraudulent counts. "The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything, " she and her colleagues had liked to joke. She did as she was bidden, but she wondered, what on earth was the point? No one could actually believe the declared results, either at home or abroad. Her country ruled half of Europe through the barrel of a gun. Why not just be honest about it?

They drove through the gates of the barracks, reaching their destination. She parted company with the the other two, and went for lunch, in the officers' mess. On her way, she picked up a copy of Neues Deutschland, which she read as she ate. What she read was bizarre. There was an editorial calling for the new work quotas and price increases to be repealed, at the same time as other articles insisted on the need for them, and stressed the importance of sacrifice to build a better society. Well, that was all to the good really. Confusion among the authorities would only embolden the workers. She guessed that some at least of the journalists must be Soviet agents; her colleagues could be very subtle, when needs be. She overheard a conversation between a pair of young officers which interested her. 

"Pardon me, but you say there's a demonstration, outside Brandenburg Prison?", she enquired. 

"Yes, they're demanding the release of prisoners, the fools. There are thousands of them. Next thing, they'll be demanding the Nazis back in power. They don't know when they're well off." 

"Why do the authorities allow this?" 

"God knows, they seem to be running scared." She ended the conversation, smiling inwardly at the thought of such a demonstration being allowed back home. She returned to her quarters, changing into a plain cotton blouse and dark skirt, indistinguishable from those worn by many local women. She'd read the reports, but really, there was nothing like seeing for yourself what was happening. 

She left the barracks, catching a tram to the city centre. As she travelled, she could see how much of the city remained a bomb site. Piles of rubble, overgrown with weeds; empty spaces, or the shattered shells of buildings. She had limited sympathy. Plenty of her own country's towns and cities remained in worse condition. East Berlin might have been a left wing stronghold, prior to the Nazis, but that hadn't stopped many of the locals from murdering her own people. She got out on the Stalinallee, where she understood much of the unrest was centred. Far from being a bomb site, this was a building site, intended to be a showpiece thoroughfare, where the best shops and grandest buildings in the city would be located. Well, it should be a building site, but it was plain that most of the construction workers were on strike. Angry crowds of workers hung around the construction sites, listening as their leaders denounced the government. Her German was good enough to understand what they were demanding. Not just the repeal of the work quotas and price rises, but free and fair elections, even in a couple of cases, an end to the Soviet occupation. 

_I know how the Queen in the North would have dealt with this kind of unrest _said a voice horribly like that of Jon Snow._ She'd have flogged them, before sending them to her prison camps. Or perhaps, selling them into slavery. I suppose a handful of shootings is a real step up in the world for you!_. Oh God, would she never be free of this! 

After a couple of hours, watching and listening, she'd seen enough to convince her that an explosion was coming. Good. She had a meeting planned that evening, with officers of the Volskpolizei, and she had a pretty good idea now what sort of instructions she'd be giving them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Political/intelligence officers like Sansa frequently possess actual power and influence far in excess of their formal rank. During the "Great Game" of the 19th century, for example, decisions of huge importance were taken by Russian and British officers whose formal rank was no higher than captain or lieutenant. The head of British intelligence in India might hold a rank no higher than Lieutenant Colonel, but he would have direct access to the Viceroy. Becoming a Major in a regular army regiment would actually see Sansa wield far less influence, but she's happy with that.
> 
> 2\. Neues Deutschland was the official newspaper of the SED, the ruling party of East Germany. It's now a left wing magazine.
> 
> 3\. The focal point of unrest was on the Stalinallee, now Karl Marx Allee. There was indeed a big demonstration outside Brandenburg prison, just before the uprising began.
> 
> 4."The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything, " A joke that is often attributed to Joseph Stalin, although there is no evidence it originated with him. He would certainly have enjoyed it.


	12. Animals Flee This Hell

Sansa had learned much, during her first month of war. She had learned that the Fascists might be beaten. The past year and a bit had been a nightmare, as the Red Army suffered relentless defeat, and gave up territory to the invader. She feared for her parents and little Arya, cut off in Leningrad. When she last met her brother, six weeks ago, he'd assured her that the city would be liberated. She hoped desperately that it was true. She feared for her people, murdered, enslaved, brutalised. Hideous tales had circulated, about the horrors inflicted by the Fascist snakes in the regions they controlled. But, now, the Germans, so formidable on the open steppe, had shown themselves vulnerable for the first time, as they were sucked into the fight for a ruined city. Their panzer divisions had seemed invincible as they struck from the Donbass towards the Volga. But, now, crawling at a snail's pace through streets turned into rubble, they were very vulnerable. The weapons of the 1077th, sub-machine guns, anti-tank grenades, petrol bombs, and anti-aircraft artillery were almost useless in open battle. But, at close quarters, they were deadly. Even at short range, the defenders could not penetrate the armour of The Panzers, but they had no need to. They had learned to destroy their tracks, rendering them useless. For the past four days, they had been holed up in the remains of the tractor factory, defying every effort by the invader to dislodge them. The Stuka dive bombers that had reduced the city to ruins, and slaughtered thousands, had actually done the defenders a favour in the end, by providing them with cover as they fought, and by making it so hard for the enemy to advance. And, with the two front lines so close, the aircraft could not resume their attacks, lest they kill their own side.

She had learned more; that she did not fear the enemy now. That the antidote to fear was not hate (though she did hate the invader) but love. She loved her family, and country, but even more, she had come to love the girls and women with whom she fought. Brave, cheerful in the worst of circumstances, so accepting of death and hardship, heroines, every one of them. They in turn, had come to view her as something of a mascot, a teenage political officer from a background far more privileged than their own, who willingly shared their dangers and hardships. She risked a quick view above the remains of the factory wall, that provided shelter for her and her comrades. Twenty metres away was the Panzer IV, which they had first disabled, before shooting the crew down like hares, as they had tried to escape, the previous day. Nothing stirred, although she knew the enemy would come again. 

She turned her attention back to poor Lydia, lying on a pair of sandbags behind her. Only seventeen, the girl had been hit with shrapnel in the chest and arms. She was plainly dying, although Sansa had assured her that help was coming. Better to die in hope, than to know that no help was coming. in time. Unlike her mother, she was not religious. But, it came to her that she was like a priest, giving hope to the dying. She took the girl's hand, and stroked it gently. She knew she faced summary execution if the enemy captured her, based upon the lie that politruks drove their soldiers into battle at gunpoint. She would have been ashamed to do such a thing, not that it was necessary. Half her regiment had been killed or injured in the fighting, yet still, their spirit was unbroken. She had learned that her job was exactly that of junior officers across the centuries; to set an example of dauntless courage, even if your guts were churning inside; to fight, and if needs be, die beside your comrades; and to comfort the injured and dying. She'd been told, during her training, that she should do her utmost to indoctrinate them as well, but she suspected they would just laugh at her if she tried. There was no need. Their job was to fight, and at that, they excelled. 

The dying girl stirred. Sansa leaned over, and began to softly sing the words of Kalinka to her. She had always sung well. The girl smiled, as she shut her eyes. After a few minutes, she saw that Lydia had passed away. She looked up at her comrades, sadly shaking her head. She felt a sudden stab of hate for the people who had deprived the dead girl of the chance to live and love, and have children. There was a sudden shout of warning, The enemy had come again. She picked up her gun, and returned to hell with her girls. 

Sansa woke to the worst day of her life, crying a little as she remembered her dream. Not for the first time, she thought it might have been for the best if she had died at Stalingrad, or at least at some point during the war. She had done nothing during that conflict to trouble her conscience. After that, so much of her life had comprised one vile task after another. None more vile than the plan she had set in motion with Bulganin and Zhukov, back in Moscow. Still, it gave her a way out. Marriage to Dmitri; command of a battalion in some out of the way location. Safety for Arya and her parents. They all depended on what she would do today. She washed and dressed herself, and made her way to the Officers' Mess for breakfast. All the discussion was about the growing unrest in the city. For days now, there had been mass demonstrations and strikes, even as the government dithered, one moment promising reform, the next issuing threats to the protestors. She had noticed here and there, swastikas, and Nazi slogans scrawled on walls and SED posters. Genuinely the work of fascists, or a false flag operation carried out by her own people? She wasn't sure which, but it made no difference. The crackdown would begin today. Innocents would die, and she would be up to her neck in their blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hitler's Commissar Order provided for the summary execution of political officers. As Turandokht and Sploot have pointed out, it was a canard that they drove soldiers into battle at gunpoint. Most of them fought as bravely as the rest of their men. The Red Army shot deserters, but so did the Germans.
> 
> 2\. Stalingrad has been the subject of a huge literature. Too late, the Germans realised that their own aircraft had turned the city into a fortress, by reducing it to rubble, and that they had broken a fundamental rule of war by allowing their armour to be drawn into urban warfare.
> 
> Right from the start, even in defeat, the Red Army inflicted massive casualties on the Germans, and the Battle of Moscow, in Winter 1941/2, was a major Soviet victory. Sansa would not appreciate this, seeing endless retreats, and fearing for her family. 
> 
> 3\. Love of comrades, what C S Lewis called philia, is a huge factor that keeps armies fighting on in desperate circumstances.


	13. Volksaufstand

They drove slowly, up from Karlshorst, towards the police headquarters in the city centre. Dubretskoi had switched on the radio which he brought from the barracks. The Western broadcaster, RIAS, was actually giving a running commentary on the protests. Her German wasn't perfect, but there was little doubt that the commentators were very sympathetic towards what was going on. Well, they would be. Not for the first time, it came to her that the Western Sector of the city needed to be completely sealed off from the East. They'd tried blockading, a few years ago, and that hadn't worked. But, letting people travel between the two Sectors was mad. It could only lead to trouble. As they drove on, so the crowds grew denser, until the point came when they could go no further, at the Potsdamer Platz. There must be tens of thousands, now. It was a sign of how far the situation had deteriorated, that the crowds refused to make way, even for Soviet soldiers. Things had escalated beyond the dirty looks of a few days ago. Now, people were willing to shout abuse at them. Several men and women had the nerve to shake their fists at her. One of them even chucked a stone in their direction. Numerous members of the Volkspolizei stood around, but no one seemed to be giving them orders. Others, she guessed, SED members and trade union officials, were trying to remonstrate with the crowds, to no avail. She heard people chanting "Down with the government", "Butter, not guns" inverting Goering's old slogan. There were banners displayed, calling for all-German elections, and an end to the occupation. 

She gave instructions to Yezhov, and he reversed, driving them to the rear of the police headquarters by a circuitous route. As she got out of the jeep, an expression of Napoleon's came to mind. "A whiff of grapeshot". That had been enough to disperse a Parisian mob, a hundred and fifty years ago. She hoped it would be enough today. The rear of the building was well-guarded, she was pleased to note. A junior officer saluted her, and introduced himself as Unterkomissar Schorner. They walked through the building, before reaching an open plan office, at the front, on the first floor. She peered out. A rank of guards stood outside, sub-machine guns at the ready. Before them was a large, very angry, crowd, shouting abuse at the regime and police alike. Stones and bottles were being thrown at the policemen. She turned to see that several police had joined her and Schorner in the office. Some were agitated. 

"They've stormed the government seat" said one to Schorner.

"It's time to disperse the crowd" she instructed, in Russian. Schorner understood the language well enough. 

"We've got tear gas, water cannon" he replied. 

"We use live ammunition. I have clear instructions from above." She saw the man go visibly pale, before turning to issue instructions to his men in German. Most of them shrugged, save one man, who protested angrily. "Socialists don't shoot workers!" he kept shouting, angrily. 

Guts churning, but putting on a bold front, she stalked over to the man, before saying in his own language, "Socialists obey the will of the Party. Do as you are ordered! Remember your oath: _"I swear, to be loyal to my socialist fatherland, the German Democratic Republic and its government at all times, to keep official and state secrets, and to strictly obey laws and instructions. I will unswervingly strive to fulfill my official duties conscientiously, honestly, courageously, vigilantly and with discipline, _" she quoted. The man continued to protest voluably.__

____

The men were wavering, she knew. What if they all disobeyed? _Time to cross the Trident _, she heard a voice in her mind. The voice of a young woman who had liberated slaves, who had tried to steal her kingdom, her bitterest enemy in her dream. But, she knew what she meant. Almost as if she was in a dream herself, she did what she had never done as a political officer in the War. Something that would have shamed her, back then. She calmly drew her pistol, and shot the miscreant in the face.__ Time seemed to slow to a crawl, as she watched the man's head explode, showering his horrified comrades with blood and brains. "Do your duty" she sternly commanded. She saw Dubretskoi, staring at her with a look of devoted admiration on his face. Yezhov looked faintly amused. Then, the men rushed to the office windows and began firing into the crowd. The guards who were stationed below opened up as well, cutting down the protestors at point blank range. She saw dozens fall as they screamed, others turning to flee in panic. Men and women clawed and trampled each other in their desperation to escape. Then she heard another sound. The motors of tanks and armoured vehicles, emerging from side streets, driving into the rioters, cutting them down as they ran. She heard too, the chatter of machine gun fire from neighbouring buildings. She never expected this. A planned surgical strike was rapidly turning into a bloodbath. She looked on in horror, as a T-44 drove over three of the crowd, leaving a red smear across the tarmac in its wake. God above! No one had told her of this! Screams, shouts of rage, howls echoed from outside, even as she ordered the men to cease firing. They had done what they had to. Like it or not, she had to play the role of hard, callous, bitch. _Don a pair of floppy ears, so to speak. I had to _, said the voice.__

____

____

____

She turned to find Schorner staring at her hard. He looked sick. She had to say something. "Well done, Schorner. Excellent work." She fancied she saw a fleeting look of disgust in his face. Well, she'd done what she had to. She could weep for the dead, later, when it was all over. She looked out of the window again. The crowd had fled, pursued by Soviet soldiers. Dead and wounded lay in the square in front of the headquarters. At least the revolt was being broken. And, Beria would fall. Arya and her parents were safe. The thought was like a warm bath. She spent another couple of hours in the building. The city was almost silent now, although she heard bursts of gunfire, from time to time. The work of pacification was under way. "Time to leave" she ordered her men. Yes, it was time to drive for the frontier, and get back to Moscow, for the last round of this game. "Smart work, Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying so" remarked Dubretskoi, as they climbed into the jeep. He would never know what she felt in side. They drove back through the city, much faster than they had come, aiming for the outskirts. Eventually, they hit the main highway to Kustrin, driving for the frontier with Poland. 

They were about halfway to their destination, when they encountered a roadblock, manned by soldiers and police. Well, they were common enough, she thought as they flagged her down. "Captain Sansa Silnova" she told the officer in charge, a Junior Lieutenant, displaying her pass. "Captain Silnova, Sergeant Dubretskoi, Corporal Yezhov, kindly accompany me", remarked the man. He gestured towards a single storey barracks, by the side of the road. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant" she replied, "But, I have urgent business." 

"Please, all will be explained". She suddenly had a bad feeling about this, but there were more than a dozen armed men, surrounding the jeep, so she got out. As they were led towards the building, an officer emerged with more soldiers, a Major. She saluted him. "Captain Silnova, I am placing you and your men under arrest" he informed her. 

"On what grounds?" 

"Murder, and espionage on behalf of the United States of America. Kindly surrender your weapons. " She had no choice, but to hand over her pistol. She and the others were led at gunpoint into the building, and confined to separate cells. Hers comprised a hard bed, a water jug and a chamber pot. A narrow window admitted some light. She cursed herself, raging inwardly against the cruel deception. Of course! Bulganin and Zhukov had played her for a fool. Oh, they'd use the unrest in Berlin as grounds to move against Beria. He was surely finished. But, they wanted no witnesses left alive, who could say that it had been orchestrated from above. Who better to brand as a scapegoat than her? They'd tell the world that the unrest had been the work of Western powers, and the one woman who could contradict them would be condemned to death for it, as a foreign agent. This was the end of the road, she realised. Gradually, her anger subsided, as she realised she felt no hard feelings towards Zhukov, even if they had once been lovers. Like everyone else, he did what he had to, to survive. Her whole life had been leading up to the point where she would be sent before a firing squad. Well, at least it would be a soldier’s death, and quick. She'd cheated death a score of times in the past, but you ran out of road eventually. She could only hope they would be satisfied with her death alone, and spare her family. 

____

____

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Daenerys' comment before she turned the Unsullied at Astapor "Time to cross the Trident" I take to be similar to Caesar crossing the Rubicon ie, there's no going back from that decision. One thing that is often overlooked is that Dany took a terrific gamble that the Unsullied would turn. Had her wager failed, she would have suffered a terrible death.
> 
> 2\. There are rumours that during the suppression of the East German uprising, soldiers and police who refused to shoot were summarily executed.


	14. The Firing Party

It was two days, before Sansa was taken from her cell. Two days of utter boredom, with nothing to read, and no one to speak to. She didn't fear death, so much as for the fate of her family. They were completely innocent, not that that would save them from destruction, in itself. Surely, Beria's enemies would have no reason to punish Arya and her parents? She hadn't breathed a word of her mission to them, other than telling Arya she was going abroad. _You know that, but do they know that? _replied her conscious mind. Well, she'd make this point absolutely clear to them, when they came to kill her. When the guards did come for her, she assumed that she was to be shot, but there was no point saying anything at this stage. She was handcuffed, and then led outside. It was late afternoon, a fine day. There was a jeep waiting. "Get in" said one of the guards. She climbed in, as best she could, and the jeep set off, driving fast back towards Berlin. After a few miles, they turned off the main highway, down a dirt track, which led into a pine wood, sudden gloom in place of the light. Presumably, this would be her place of execution. What a waste. She had hoped to get out of this life, and try to put things right. But, she'd made her choices at the end of the War, and everything had led up to this. A bullet in the head, and burial in an unmarked grave. Innocents had died at her hands, and now she must go her death with their blood on her conscience.__

____

A two storey, wooden building came into view, once perhaps, the hunting lodge of some Juncker. Finally, the jeep halted. "Out" commanded the guard. She scrambled out. A reprieve? No. Presumably, they intended to interrogate her before killing her. Interrogate her very painfully, possibly. Well, she'd tell them what they wanted to hear. That way, at least, she'd spare herself a good deal of torture. The guards surrounded her, and pointed to the building. One of them opened the door, and she entered into a narrow hall. There were several doors leading off it. A guard knocked on one of them, twice. 

____

"Enter" called the voice of a young woman. A voice which sounded strangely familiar, yet, at the same time, one she found very hard to place. The guard opened the door, and nudged her through with the point of his gun. Any slight hope which she might have had of coming out of this untortured (she had no hope of coming out alive) vanished the moment she set eyes on the young female Lieutenant who awaited her, sitting behind her desk. She recognised her instantly, how could she not? Very few people possess silver-blonde hair and lavender eyes, after all. 

____

"Well, isn't this the happy reunion?" remarked the Lieutenant, smiling sardonically, after staring up at her, for a few seconds. "Tie her into the chair, remove her cuffs" she commanded two of the guards, who obeyed swiftly. Then they left. 

"I bet you could do with a drink." Sansa nodded, not knowing what to say. The other woman reached under the desk, bringing out a bottle of brandy and a pair of snifter glasses.. She walked round the table, and then poured for them both . Sansa drank greedily, before the Lieutenant returned to the other side of the desk. She turned over several opening comments, in her mind, before, 

"For what it's worth, I'm very sorry. Jon may have wielded the dagger, but I pushed him into it. It was wrong of me. The consequences were disastrous for the Seven Kingdoms." 

"I finally worked out for myself he was only the catspaw, and you were the cat." 

"If it's any consolation, I lost the North, and he took my head in turn." The other woman gave a brief bark of laughter. "We all came to bad ends, those of us who plotted against you." 

"Every woman in Jon's life came to a bad end. Not just you and me, that wildling girl, Ygritte, I think her name was. We all could have come out of it, so well together. But, you and your brother got greedy. Then...….I panicked, and lashed out. I'm not proud of it. I burned a city, but I certainly wasn't the only one who had blood on my hands." 

"You weren't. Honestly, I raised a glass when I learned Kings Landing had burned." Sansa sighed. Then, after a short silence, 

"I'll bet you raised another, when you learned what he did to me."

Sansa grimaced, then admitted "Yes, I did. Please forgive me." There was a pause, before she asked, "What happens now?" 

"Well, I think you know as well as I do what *could* happen to you now. Or you could spare yourself a great deal of anguish by signing your confession. I've had it typed up already. For what it's worth, I forgive you for what you did to me. I'm in need of a great deal of forgiveness myself. But, I can't get you a reprieve. You have powerful enemies I'm afraid. Enemies I could not possibly defy. You've rubbed my chief up the wrong way, especially." 

"I've worked that out myself. My only fear is for my family. But, I'll sign whatever you want me to. I don't have any realistic choice, have I?." 

"Not really. No one signs a confession, until they realise they have no choice." The Lieutenant winced. "I really wish people wouldn't try to play the hero when they're questioned. They all sign eventually. But, the sensible ones sign at once. " 

"Tell me about it." A horrible memory floated into her mind. Of her lover Paul. Battered to a pulp by Dubretskoi, bleeding from every orifice, one eye missing, eventually signing. Too late to save his life, unfortunately. 

"We've all done things we're ashamed of ", said the woman who had been Daenerys Targaryen, guessing her thoughts. "And, my war record was nothing like yours. All I got was the campaign medal. " She reached into a briefcase, and passed the confession across the desk, with a pen. Sansa read it. "It's nonsense" she remarked. 

"I know that. But, it's what my chiefs want." She signed. "Cigarette?" asked Daenerys. She nodded. The woman lit up for both of them, and they talked for a while. " I just wanted the chance to put things right, " Sansa said eventually. 

"I'm sure you did. But, both of us returned to a world where it wasn't possible." 

"One last thing. My family are harmless. They know nothing of my mission. Can you tell your chiefs that? " 

" I promise I shall. I can't promise that will save them, but I'll do my best." Another silence, this time awkward. Then, she asked softly, "Do you want a blindfold?" 

"I've been under fire. That won't be necessary". Daenerys nodded, then called for the guards. She led them out a short distance, into a clearing. The Sun was starting to set. There was a golden haze around her, just like the last time she had died. She was led to a wooden post, which they bound her too. Half a dozen men lined up, awaiting the command. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted this over with, but every extra second of life was a blessing. Then, she heard someone shouting from the lodge. Daenerys turned and re-entered the building. After a few minutes, she returned. Sansa's heart sank, at the look of genuine anguish on the other woman's face, as she approached her. "I'm truly sorry Sansa. Moscow wants you returned, for further questioning. And judgement." She felt sick. Had Beria prevailed, after all? Or did his enemies just want to make a cruel example of her? Either way, she would suffer terribly. 

____


	15. In At the Death

The First Deputy Premier was a bitter man. He'd sent Captain Silnova out to the GDR to find the evidence he needed to destroy Zhukov, and to pour oil on troubled waters. The country had exploded in bloody revolt. Then, three days ago, after the uprising in Berlin had been crushed ruthlessly, he'd found out that she was playing him false, doing the exact opposite to what he instructed. That hurt. You promote someone, and then they betray you in turn. It never occurred to him that his immediate predecessor, might have felt the same way about him. His response was immediate. Arya Silnova had been taken into custody. His trusted henchman, Bogdan Kobulov, had been charged with returning Sansa to Moscow to face punishment. He knew just how he would break her. Kobulov desired her, he knew, just as he himself desired her sister. They'd enjoy the pair of them in turn. Their parents would be forced to observe. Then, he'd hang all four of them, one at a time, Sansa the last, after she'd watched the rest die. That was something to look forward to, he thought, as he sat at his desk, drowning in paperwork. Once again, he studied the agenda for the meeting of the Soviet Praesidium, which was taking place that afternoon. 

If Sansa could have willed her own death, she'd have done so, as she flew back from East Germany, in an Ilyushin transport. Dubretskoi and Yezhov, sat close by, handcuffed as she was. She racked her brains, thinking of a way to take her own life, but she was closely guarded. They weren't going to spare her one moment of the torment that was coming her way. If she was returning to face Beria's wrath, she had a pretty good idea of the form that torment would take. And no doubt, the same would be inflicted on her sister. If she was retuning to face punishment at the hands of his enemies, well, at least she'd be spared that. Worn out by the events of the past few days, she drifted off to sleep, before she could attempt anything. She woke, to find that the plane had now landed. "Get out" she was commanded. She, and her men, were loaded into the back of a van, and driven off to the city, to meet their fate. "I'm sorry for this" she told them as they drove. They just shrugged, fatalistic as ever. They knew as well as she did, the risks of a career in intelligence. They drove through the centre of the city, her heart starting to pound, as she saw the familiar towers of the Kremlin approaching. They drove through the entrance, and the van halted. All three were ordered out, once again, and led into the ground floor of the Praesidium Building. There were some fine paintings on the walls, she noted, although this was hardly the moment for appreciating fine art. Eventually, a pair of double doors were opened, and she entered a large drawing room. She blinked with astonishment. There before her, stood Marshal Zhukov, four generals, and at least a dozen Colonels and Brigadiers. 

The Marshal strode over and embraced her. "Thank God you made it out alive, Sansa! You did very well!" 

"Really? I was on the point of being shot by a firing squad! I thought I was being brought back for worse. No one told me I was getting a reprieve." 

"I'm sorry" he replied. "Semyonov hates you. You must have rubbed him up the wrong way. He wanted you dead. But, the army doesn't throw its own to the wolves. I called in a few favours, and he had to release you. I'll bet it was a last bit of spite on his part, to make you think you were being sent home for punishment. He's as much a cunt as your boss is. Talking of which...….uncuff them," he commanded. One of the guards who had brought them in released the cuffs. Sansa flexed her hands as she felt the blood rush back. 

"I thought you might want this. " Zhukov handed her a Mauser pistol. "And this" he gave a sheet of paper. She gasped in amazement, as she realised it was a list of charges against Beria. She looked up at Zhukov who smiled grimly. "Yes, as soon as we get the signal, we're arresting him. He's fucked. I thought you might like to do the honours, Major." Major Silnova! But then, "One bit of bad news. That bastard's arrested your sister. " Her heart lurched. "We'll free her as soon as we've taken the swine." 

Beria walked towards the meeting of the Praesidium. He expected a rough ride, because of the events in East Germany. Well, as far as he was concerned, the fighting only highlighted the need for reform. He had his own supporters. Premier Malenkov was on his side. Before long, he'd be arresting Kruschev, Molotov, Bulganin, and the other traitors. He entered the chamber, and took his seat. For a time, they discussed routine business, before, inevitably, turned to to East Germany. Kruschev rose to speak:- 

"The uprising was in large part the work of the Central Intelligence Agency, operating from West Berlin. Our agents have established this fact. Hundreds of people were killed or injured, and immense damage has been caused to our reputation worldwide. Even now there is resistance. But, there is worse news. Our late chief constantly warned us that the internal enemy is more deadly than the foe without. I believe that this uprising was orchestrated at the highest level, by men who have been in service to Western powers for many years. Comrade Beria" he addressed him. "I put it to you that you have been working as an agent for the United States of America for the past twenty years. I put it to you that you have orchestrated this unrest for your own ends. It is no secret that you favour the withdrawal of our forces from the German Democratic Republic. Comrades" he addressed the assembled gathering "this gentleman is a traitor". There was uproar, men on their feet, shouting abuse at both Beria and Kruschev, shaking their fists. 

"What's going on, Nikita Sergeyevich? Why are you picking fleas in my trousers?" Beria shouted, jumping up, indignant. "I gain nothing from this unrest. Very much the opposite. In fact, I am the victim of a conspiracy. One of my own subordinates, one of my own subordinates, has proved to be working for my enemies. If anyone orchestrated this uprising, look to those two," he gestured towards Molotov and Bulganin. There were angry shouts, before the two men both rose to speak against him. Kruschev then spoke again, "I demand that Comrade Beria be placed under arrest, and removed immediately from the Praesidium of the Soviet Union. " Horrified, he turned to the Premier Malenkov, an old friend and partner in crime. "Comrade Premier" he demanded angrily. "You know my record of service. Over the course of many years. Please call this meeting to order. " The Premier pressed a button on the desk in front of him, refusing to meet his eye.

There was a buzz in the drawing room. "This is it" announced Zhukov. He and the other officers drew their weapons, Sansa and her men trotting along with them. Could it really be so easy to arrest the most powerful man in the Soviet Union, she wondered? As they approached the entrance to the Chamber of the Praesidium, half a dozen guards stepped forward, hands on sub-machine guns. For a moment, it seemed they planned to fight. "Get out" commanded Zhukov. They meekly obeyed, scurrying away. In turn, the Marshal made way for Sansa. She stepped forward and flung open the doors to the Chamber, to find the meeting in uproar. Men shouting abuse at each other, some of them even exchanging blows. She saw her quarry, a few metres away, angrily gesticulating. She fired her pistol into the ceiling, freezing them into silence. Beria turned to face her, the most wonderful look of astonishment dawning on his face, as he recognised her. 

"Comrade Beria, I am placing you under arrest. On charges of murder, espionage, treason, and no fewer than three hundred and forty nine counts of rape, some of them girls as young as seven." 

"Girls as young as seven!" shouted Kruschev, voice filled with disgust.

"This is an outrage" shrieked Beria, as Zhukov and his officers stepped forward. "Comrades, I am entitled to a fair trial, under the terms of the Soviet Criminal Code. I demand my rights. There is no justice here. " Sansa looked across the room. She saw fierce satisfaction in the faces of the fallen minister's enemies. Sheepish embarrassment in the eyes of those who had, until a few seconds ago, been his supporters. But, all the latter were eager now to abandon a lost cause. Zhukov took careful aim, and punched the man in the jaw, sending him sprawling. A colonel stepped forward with a pair of cuffs, yanking his arms behind his back, before he fastened them. "Up, shitface", he commanded. She followed the officers as they manhandled the man out of the Chamber. In the lobby, they met a party of soldiers coming in the opposite direction, plainly Zhukov's men, as the officer in charge saluted him smartly. 

The Marshal turned to Beria. "Where have you detained Major Silnova's sister, you bastard?" 

"Fuck Major Silnova!" screamed the man. Zhukov raised his fist again, and the man muttered "Lubyanka" before the blow fell. "Sergei" he commanded one of his generals, "Take these men" - gesturing to the new arrivals - "and Major Silnova, and release her sister immediately. As to you" he turned back to Beria, "if one hair on her head has been harmed, I'll make you wish you'd never been born." "She's safe, she's safe! " he screamed. 

"Right you fucker" said Zhukov "You've got plenty of questions to answer now, and an appointment with men who are skilled at extracting answers." She saw them drag him away down a side corridor, still protesting his innocence, loudly. 

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She'd been expecting a dreadful death, just an hour ago. Now, she was safe. Even more important, she never need fear for her sister or parents again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Beria was arrested at the Praesidium on 26th June 1953, by Zhukov and his fellow senior officers. Kruschev had just roundly denounced him as an agent of the United States. In The Death of Stalin, he was arrested at a meeting of the Politburo.
> 
> 2\. Beria betrayed his superior, Nikolai Yezhov, take his place.


	16. Fifty Years On

Sansa enjoyed her visits to London, especially in early Spring, before the city became humid. She had spent the morning walking through Holland Park, admiring the tulip magnolias and enjoying the crisp, April weather. She had had lived here for a few years in the Sixties and Seventies, before the government of Edward Heath expelled her husband for espionage. This time, the pair had returned for a more pleasant task. Dmitri was now Deputy Foreign Minister of the Russian Federation. This would be his last function before retirement . They would present the Medal of Ushakov to survivors of the Arctic Convoy. In the Embassy's State Room, the pair greeted a dozen veterans, and a few more family members who were attending on behalf of those too infirm to travel. She was fortunate to be in good health, still, at the age of seventy nine. She'd managed to give up smoking after leaving active service, or else, she doubted she would ever have lived this long. Five years after Beria's fall, she had been transferred to the reserves with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, after giving birth to her first daughter.

Her husband greeted a blonde, middle aged, woman who had travelled from Durham, Elaine Bradwell. "My father's too old to travel, now" she explained, "but he was chuffed to be offered this medal. It was years before our own government even recognised the Arctic Convoys." 

"I'm not sure we could have won the war, without people like your father, bringing in supplies" remarked Sansa. "My parents and sister were trapped in Leningrad. They would have starved, as so many did, without the Convoy." 

"I heard Russian women fought in the army. Did you? Where?" 

"Stalingrad, Belarus, Germany."

"My wife had something of a reputation, during the war" commented Dmitri. "They called her "The Red Wolf" in the army's newspaper. " The nickname still brought her pleasure. She was reminded of it, from time to time, when she was invited to speak at military functions. If she were still alive, next year, she would be a guest of honour of President Lukashenko, when his government celebrated the sixtieth anniversary of their country's liberation, before the Monument of Victory in Minsk. 

"You must have some tales to tell" commented Elaine. 

"Not all of them tales I'd want to share" she replied, exchanging a glance with her husband. "I'm happy to say, I spent the last years of my military career in complete obscurity. I'd had enough adventures by then. After that, I had three children to bring up. I'm glad our two countries can be friends again, as we were in the War.

"Stan has nothing but praise for your people's courage." Sansa smiled again. 

She and her husband moved on to the next recipient, an eighty five year old man, whose ship had been torpedoed. Most of his comrades had been drowned, but he'd survived in a lifeboat, before being rescued. She thanked him for all he had done. He seemed guilty at having survived the war , when most of his comrades had died. She understood that feeling all too well. Most of her fellow soldiers from the 1077th had perished at Stalingrad. 

Bulganin had kept faith with her, after Beria was overthrown. She had met her former master just the once, after his overthrow. Bulganin gave her command of a battalion as promised, fifty miles from Moscow. In peacetime, she had had little enough to do, but that suited her well. At the end of the year, however, she had received abrupt orders to return to the Defence Headquarters in the city, very early in the morning. She remembered her arrival at the building, still in pitch darkness. It was still some hours before the Sun would emerge for a brief time. The weather was freezing, as usual. Snow fell heavily, and she was thankful for her greatcoat and fur hat. She was accompanied by Dubretskoi, now promoted to Junior Lieutenant. She was led through the building to an inner courtyard, illuminated by portable lamps. Marshal Zhukov was waiting for her. 

"The rat has been found guilty by the Supreme Court, and sentenced to death. I can think of no one more suitable to carry out the sentence than you." She laughed inwardly at the irony. Six months ago, she was on the point of being shot. After thirty minutes or so, the condemned man was led into the courtyard. He looked daggers at Zhukov, and then pleadingly at her. His arms had been pinioned to his side, and he was forced to his knees before her. She stared down, before pronouncing: 

"Comrade Beria, the Supreme Court of the Soviet Union has found you guilty; of espionage, of treason, of counter-revolutionary activity, of murder, and of rape. For these crimes, the sentence is death. The Court has further decreed that you be stripped of all military and civil honours. Have you anything to say before the sentence is carried out: " She'd expected curses, abuse, spitting fury and hatred. Instead the man began to weep softly before her. "Spare my life", he begged. "You know these charges are false. Please Sansa" he looked up appealingly "I always did right by you. I brought you into this game. I arranged your promotions. I spared your sister. I would never have harmed her. " She felt a wave of fury at that last lie, even as she noticed a dark stain appear on the front of his trousers. Dubretskoi gave a sound of disgust, beside her. She drew her pistol, as the man screamed, high-pitched. "Sansa, I beg you. Don't have the death of an innocent man on your conscience!" She fired into the man's forehead, and he collapsed backwards into the snow, a pool of blood spreading out behind his head. "And, that's the end of that" remarked Zhukov. "Between you and me, Sansa, our bosses have reached a tacit agreement. None of them will die now, if they fall out of favour. The worst they'll face is being sent to run a power station in the Far East. But, this fucker had to die. Take him away" he commanded his men, who picked up the corpse. 

She had felt nothing but satisfaction at killing Beria. At least now, she could live with herself, once again. She still felt shame at some of her actions, but time was a healer. After being released, unharmed, Arya had made a successful career as a chemist. She had sadly passed away, the previous year. Much to her surprise, she had met the woman who had once been Daenerys Targaryen, on her last visit to London, a decade previously, at the Orthodox Cathedral of Dormition. White-haired, but still striking, she now lived in Kensington, and looked after a brood of grandchildren. The two of them had kept in touch, and planned to have lunch tomorrow at Quaglino's.

She who had been the Queen Who Lost the North, and ruled as a monstrous tyrant, had been given a second chance. it was, she knew, far better than she had ever deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is poetic licence on my part. The first Medals of Ushakov were awarded to veterans of the Arctic Convoys in 2013, not 2003. But, that would make Sansa 89, so I brought it forward by ten years. Elaine Bradwell is my step sister in law. Her father, Stan, was indeed awarded the Medal of Ushakov, but he was too old to attend the ceremony, and she went on his behalf. It is the top Russian (formerly Soviet) naval medal.
> 
> 2\. Operation Foot in 1971, saw 105 Soviet diplomats expelled from the United Kingdom.
> 
> 3\. Beria was executed by a bullet through the head, on 23rd December 1953, in reality, by General Pavel Batitsky. By all accounts, he was weeping and crying for mercy.
> 
> 4\. The Cathedral of Dormition is in Kensington. Quaglino's is a fabulously expensive restaurant in St. James.


End file.
